


what a waste, to be so alone

by nightmmares



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Archivist Sasha James, Ghosts, M/M, Martin Blackwood-centric, Medium Burn, au where jon haunts the archive, no canon compliance we fuck around with timeline like we're jonny sims
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:26:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26224903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightmmares/pseuds/nightmmares
Summary: Martin likes his job, but there’s something under the surface hiding there. Maybe he’s just paranoid, read a few too many statements, but he swears that the Magnus Institute is haunted.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 124
Kudos: 445





	1. see a crack that i know

Martin likes his job. It pays the bills, obviously, but there’s something else about it. Perhaps he was always meant to be an archival assistant, credentials be damned. He likes to think he’s been doing a pretty good job of it. He makes mistakes of course—he’s still Martin. But they don’t seem to matter as much when Sasha gently corrects them and shows him the right way to do things, or when Tim claps a hand on his shoulder and smiles. All things considered; he’s got it pretty good at work in spite of his background.

There's something more, though. Maybe he’s just paranoid, read a few too many statements, but he swears the Magnus Institute is haunted. It’s not like he broadcasts the theory or anything, but there are times things just feel _off._ Even when he’s completely alone, Sasha shut up in her office doing whatever Head Archivists do and Tim off swooning information out of people, he doesn’t feel like he is. It’s like there’s always something lurking in the shadows, watching.

It can be creepy, but Martin thinks maybe its just a part of the job.

He tries not to think about it. He pretends that the third desk in he and Tim’s setup doesn’t radiate such an intense presence despite being empty. He pretends that Tim is the one that leaves books lying open in odd places, despite the contents having nothing to do with a current case.

Martin is good at slipping things between the cracks and pretending they’re whole.

There is no shortage of work to do. The previous Head Archivist had left the place in a state of disarray, and she hadn’t been replaced for quite some time. Sasha often handed cases out to Tim and Martin to try to make a dent in the pile. She prefers that they transfer the statements to an audio format and include findings from any follow up. The world is digital now, and a catalogue means that things can be categorized and tagged to make research that much more efficient for them or any other scholars.

Martin doesn’t mind. Though the statements can be quite unsettling, it gives him a chance to practice his oration. It’s a nice little exchange, and the statements are easy enough to record to a laptop.

Until they aren’t. Statement 9941509 refuses to be recorded to his laptop, the file corrupting on multiple software. He even tries his phone, but it never seems to save anything past “Statement of”. Martin works on it for a substantial amount of time, frustrated that he can’t figure out what he’s doing wrong and too embarrassed to ask for help.

“You’re still working on that?” Tim asks, late in the afternoon, stretching as far back on his chair as he can, “What’s up? Is it super spooky or something?”

“I can’t get it to record,” Martin admits, “I’m not sure what I should do.”

Tim’s face wrinkles as he thinks, “Your phone?”

“Tried that,” Martin answers, just a little relieved that he hadn’t been stupid for trying.

“Hmm,” Tim shrugs, “Ask Sasha. She knows everything.”

“Y-Yeah,” Martin nods, but he gets up from his desk slowly. Sasha is…intimidating. She’s nice, of course, but almost _too_ nice. He can’t help but think that she sees him as a rather dull child who needs his hand held to get any real work done. She’s never indicated so, but Martin’s skin prickles just at the thought that she might.

Her door is almost always open, unless someone wants to give a live statement. Martin knocks on the frame of it anyway. She looks up at him and smiles, “Martin! What can I do for you?”

“Uh, well,” Martin steps into her office, gripping the statement. “I’m having some trouble recording this statement. It’s one of the old ones you gave me—not that that matters obviously, I’m not sure why I can’t…why none of my electronics are working correctly today.”

Sasha taps the eraser side of a pencil against her lips, regarding him with interest, “That’s strange, but you know what? I’ve actually had one or two like that as well.”

“Oh,” Martin, a pulse of relief throbbing through the fingers holding the paper. “What did…what should I do?”

“Well,” Sasha leans back, opening one of her drawers. The scrape of wood on wood is obnoxiously loud. “Rosie lent me this tape player. I’ve put the others on tapes, that way we’ve got _something,_ until we can figure out the issue and rerecord them to get them into the database.”

Martin is a little surprised, “Alright, that—that works. Can I borrow the tape recorder?”

“Of course,” Sasha smiles, sliding it toward him, “All yours.”

“Thanks, Sasha,” Martin says, and he means it.

Martin tucks himself into one of the empty study rooms and spreads out everything. He rather likes having his own space to himself in here. The tape recorder is easy to use, and it seems to be cooperating for a reason unlike his more modern technology. He clears his throat and begins to read the statement, doing his best to add inflection as necessary.

It is…it affects him. It is about a woman who finds that she can’t recognize her mother, but nobody takes her seriously that the woman she sees and the woman she knew are not the same person. It’s easy to lose himself in the hopelessness of the statement giver, the frustration and confusion.

He can’t help thinking of his own mother. His perception of her has been about the same since he was a child. But what if some lucidity claimed her and turned her into a different person? He wonders if that would be better, and then feels guilty for even thinking it. A tiny voice needles at him, though, that she would certainly prefer if _he_ were replaced. But Martin has spent so much of his life trying to change himself into something that would please her that he doubts there is any change that would ever satisfy her.

Martin nearly jumps a mile when the door to the study room slams open. Tim is standing in the doorway, huffing around a giant grin. “Tim!” Martin cries, heart beating at a pace that’s surely not safe.

“Sorry,” Tim says, but he doesn’t sound it. “But you’ve got to come see this! There’s a cat that managed to slip inside, and now its resting all comfortable on the stacks like it owns the place!”

Perhaps Martin can forgive Tim. He nearly stumbles out of his chair, “You're joking. Where?” The thought of an animal in the Archives makes the back of his neck tingle for some reason.

The two head off to see this marvel, and Martin doesn’t realize he’s left the tape recorder running until a few minutes later. He dashes back to shut it off, cursing himself. Later, he’ll have to re-listen to the tape so that he can mark the spot that it should have ended.

He isn’t able to do so until the next day. The cat takes up the rest of their afternoon, even the head director, a man with a slick smile named Elias coming down to see it. He considers the cat with an odd sort of calculation, eventually flashing his teeth and saying, “Perhaps the Archives could use a guard kitty looking out for us all if no one comes to claim him.”

Martin likes cats well enough, so he volunteers to make sure that its fed and watered and taken care of. It’s got no collar and seems quite cozy in the building. It makes Martin feel useful, to be able to provide for something that all of the other employees seem to care for. He takes pride in setting up the accommodations for the cat, a fluffy Maine Coon with sharp yellow eyes, and only remembers his actual work later.

He sits through himself giving the statement, cringing only minimally. Martin lets the tape keep playing as he writes the end mark information down. He even smiles a little at his and Tim’s conversation. He is not expecting to hear a heavy, tired sigh emit from the tape recorder a few moments after he and Tim had surely left already. Martin freezes, blinking when the tape finally comes to a stop with a loud click. He rewinds it, strains his ears and hears the sigh again. It is _definitely_ a sigh, deep and pronounced.

Martin doesn’t waste any time gathering his things and leaving the study room behind. It is only later, hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea, that Martin lets himself really think about it. So what if the Archives are haunted? The ghost hasn’t done anything to harm them, has it? It must be rather lonely, actually. Martin feels a little guilty after that thought and resolves to not be so afraid.

It’s easier said than done. It is much harder to ignore all the little signs of something being off now that he’s sure the Archive is haunted. He tries not to let this get in the way of his work, recording and researching statements to keep himself busy. It mostly works, until Case  
0140911\. Martin encounters the same sorts of problems he did before, only this time he knows there’s a solution. He’d returned the tape recorder to Sasha after the Sigh, and now he’s reluctant to retrieve it.

It’s his job, though, and Martin doesn’t want to let anybody down. He approaches Sasha’s office with what he hopes is a calm and normal face. “Excuse me? Any chance I could borrow that tape player again?”

“Oh, sure,” Sasha says, without looking up from her work, “’Nother tricky statement?”

“Yeah,” Martin says, his voice betraying him just enough. Sasha reaches into her drawer again and retrieves it, finally looking at him. She pauses.

“Are you alright, Martin?” she asks, and he knows the concern is genuine.

“Just fine. Just a bit—well, a bit spooked, really,” Martin hedges, resisting the urge to wring his hands together.

“What’s going on?” Sasha asks, even though Martin thinks its rather clear he’d like the conversation to be over.

“I…” Martin swallows and admits, “I think this place is haunted, actually.” He forces a laugh, “Crazy, right?”

Sasha doesn’t indulge him. “It is,” she says.

Martin blinks at her, “Sorry, what?”

Sasha shrugs, “It must be. I mean, Gertrude—the last Archivist—she _died_ here. I think it’s pretty likely we’ve got a few ghoulies.”

“Oh,” Martin responds, unable to keep himself from asking, “So I’m not crazy?”

“Martin,” Sasha smiles at him fondly, “You are definitely not crazy.”

Martin can feel the heat rising to his cheeks, and Sasha finally hands him the tape recorder. “Thanks,” he says, his voice too soft.

He’s feeling better about the whole thing and returns to the study room to record this statement. His good doesn’t last very long. The statement is about a man who finds himself stranded in a nowhere neighborhood, utterly alone. The only thing the man finds is the body of a woman who’s apparently killed herself. The man believes he’s going to die there—alone in a place that could be anywhere but is nowhere. The man does escape, though it’s not particularly clear. One minute he’s alone and then he’s not.

It scares Martin, the loneliness bit of it. To think of anyone being stranded in a place that’s so full of life, to fade into the background until there is nothing else, to only be pulled out by what—chance? It makes the back of Martin’s neck prickle.

There isn’t much to follow up on and Martin makes quick work of the findings bit. He practically jumps out of his seat when he hears the chirp of the Library Cat (it’s yet to be named) outside the door. He could use a bit of cat love right now, so he leaves his things behind and goes to see about the cat.

Martin is not expecting the man standing in the hallway to be there, no cat in sight anymore. He looks a little sad, Martin thinks at first. But then he really looks at the man and feels heat bloom in his cheeks. The man is a few inches shorter than Martin, black and silver hair tousled in a way that is almost unprofessional, and he is striking to look at. The best description Martin can think of in the moment is that he looks like a professor of some sort that has perhaps missed a few nights sleep.

“H-Hello,” Martin squeaks before he can stop himself, red spreading to his ears.

The man glances at Martin and looks away, but then looks back as though he’s just realized Martin is talking to him. Shock flashes across his face, followed by confusion. Martin takes a deep breath, “Do you need help with something?”

He’s pretty close to the library side, so the man really could be an academic looking to research. The man swallows visibly and turns toward Martin. His voice is hoarse, as though it’s not been used for a long time, “I…I’m not really sure. I thought…I thought I heard a...cat?”

“Oh, yes,” Martin says, “He lives here—well, in the Archives.”

They both fall silent. The man is looking at him a little strangely, like he’s trying to figure something out. Martin offers his hand, “I’m, uh, Martin. I work in the Archives, in case you need, like, help with anything or…”

The man takes Martin’s hand after a moment. It’s cold. Martin can only focus on the contrast of the man’s skin against his own. “That’s a…nice name,” the man says, and he nods after moment, as if to himself.

Martin tries to ignore the flutter in his stomach, “Yours?”

The man has the decency to look embarrassed, and maybe that’s why it takes him a moment to answer. “Jon…my name is Jon.”

“That’s a nice name too,” Martin says, wishing he could smack himself.

The man looks a little…pleased, though. Reassured. “Good,” he murmurs, “Good.”

“Well, I’ll let you get back to your research,” Martin says, though Jon’s never mentioned any. “It was nice to meet you, Jon.”

“You as well, Martin,” Jon says, and his smile is so soft that Martin almost melts. Martin turns to go back to the study room before he can make any further a fool of himself. He shuts the door and leans against it, shaking his head.

“Don’t be stupid,” he mutters to himself, “He’s just a very attractive maybe professor who thinks my name is nice. No reason to get all worked up.”

Martin has never been very good at making himself feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> call me a gardener bc i be planting seeds


	2. there's a space in between, like a grey of a green

Martin isn’t often late to work, but some days the universe is truly against him. He hurries as best he can, praying that no one will notice the drops of tea he’d managed to spill on himself as he was scurrying out the door. He’s only about fifteen minutes late by the time he stumbles up the steps to the Magnus Institute, but its still enough to make him anxious.

Perhaps that’s why he doesn’t notice the woman he’s about to crash into until its too late. He very nearly falls, but she shoots out a hand and steadies him with a firm grip. “S-Sorry,” The words tumble out of him, “I-I wasn’t looking where I was going…”

The look she gives him is very unimpressed, and it makes him want to cringe. She’s got short blonde hair and tattoos up and down both of her arms, her jaw sharp and angular. She just—she looks _severe._ It doesn’t help that she’s scrutinizing him with calculating eyes, though Martin can’t possibly fathom what she’s looking for.

She releases his arm and looks away, as if they’d never crossed paths, continuing on her way down the steps. Martin watches her go, a little confused about the whole thing until he remembers he’s already late.

When he makes it to the Archives, Tim is in Sasha’s office. As soon as Tim catches sight of Martin, he frantically waves him in, “Martin! Thank God you’re here, the _weirdest_ thing just happened—”

“It wasn’t that weird,” Sasha rolls her eyes, “What’s so weird about police doing research?”

“Did you see her face? That was _interrogation!”_ Tim shakes his head.

“What’s going on?” Martin asks, forehead creasing.

Tim turns his excitement to Martin, “So Sash and I had just got in, right? It’s like, bloody early for visitors, but this woman barges in here, demanding to speak to Elias. She shows us her badge and everything, says she’s police and its important, looks about a second away from shoving us out of the way. But she doesn’t have to, because all of a sudden Elias is right there, like he just hangs out down here all the time! And he’s smiling—and if you’d seen this woman, Martin, you would _not_ be smiling. He takes her up to his office like its some sort of commonplace thing and I wanted to eavesdrop, you know, but Sasha wouldn’t let me.” He rolls his eyes, “Anyway, I don’t think it went well, because she looked even angrier when she left than when she came in.”

“That—That is a little weird,” Martin says, thinking of the woman he ran into outside.

“You don’t have to indulge him,” Sasha says, “He’s being over-dramatic. Tim’s just watched too much TV.”

“Come on,” Tim drapes himself over one of her chairs, “What are the chances of Elias just being there?”

“He was probably coming down for some tea or something,” Sasha says, “He does work here, you know.”

“Yeah, but not with _us,”_ Tim insists, looking away as he scoffs, “Not that I’m complaining.”

“What do you think the police wanted?” Martin asks curiously.

“ I don’t know for sure,” Sasha says, “but I think it was about a missing person.”

“Oh,” Martin frowns, “Do you…I mean, do we know any missing persons?”

He does not miss the way her eyes flash to Tim’s or the way Tim suddenly tenses. “No,” Sasha looks back at him, “Must be someone Elias might know.”

“Right,” Martin nods, and does what he does best—deflects, “What’s on the docket today?”

“Glad you asked,” Sasha smiles as Tim groans.

Sasha gives him Statement 0121102, a recollection of a nurse who witnessed a man kill another under odd circumstances. It honestly sounds a bit like a bad dream, but Martin throws himself into it anyway. He makes a list of what he plans to check on: hospital records for both the patients and the nurse, possibly police records, and Artefact Storage.

If he decides to start with the Artefact Storage because its rather close to the public portion of the Institute and maybe he’s hoping to catch a glimpse of Jon, who’s to know? Martin brings his notebook and double checks the descriptions he’s got for the red book mentioned in the statement and the eye symbols. Unfortunately, he doesn’t catch sight of Jon on the way there and actually ends up spending a bit of time in the other department.

There are a few red books that have been cataloged, but none of them have a brass pendant. There are quite a few eye symbols, but since the description is so vague, Martin’s not sure he’s found anything of use. He makes notes of the possibility for further investigation and leaves, a little disappointed even though he’d never really expected to find much.

He’s walking back to the Archives when he hears murmuring coming from one of the empty rooms. Curious, he peeks in and nearly swallows his throat when he realizes Jon is sitting at one of the tables. The Library Cat is on the table in front of him, staring intently at Jon. Jon is talking to it, Martin realizes.

“It must mean something,” Jon murmurs, thin hand combing through the cat’s fur. “Months of…of nothing and now you and him…I don’t understand…”

Martin clears his throat before he can think better of it, and Jon looks up in surprise. Martin hopes he doesn’t imagine the slight upward tick of the man’s lips. “I see you’ve found our cat.”

Jon looks sheepish, “Yes, I…he’s very persistent. I had no choice but to pet him.”

“No choice,” Martin agrees, smiling.

“Does he have a name?” Jon asks, and Martin falters.

“Er…not really. He sort of just ended up here, acts like he belongs here. No one's come looking for him.” Now it is Martin’s turn to be sheepish, “We haven’t really decided on a name yet…”

Jon is looking back at the cat, almost like the animal is a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. “Interesting,” he murmurs, and Martin wonders what it would be like to have that kind of focus turned on himself. “He looks regal.”

“Sorry?” Martin blinks.

“The cat,” Jon says, “He looks like he’s in charge and he knows it.”

“Like an admiral,” Martin blurts, and he can feel the heat creeping up his neck.

But Jon smiles, a real genuine thing, like Martin has just cracked some code, “Yes. That’s exactly it. He’s the Admiral.”

The cat—The Admiral—twitches at this, shimmies its shoulders until it is pressing insistently against Jon’s hand. Martin’s never seen it act like this before. “I guess he likes his name.”

Jon doesn’t seem to be paying attention, curling his fingers into the cat’s fur. “I like cats,” Jon says, but its mostly to himself, like he’s…like he’s checking with himself. It’s a bit odd.

“He seems to like you too,” Martin offers, unsure of what else to really say.

Jon finally looks at Martin, “I suppose so.”

“Well, I…” Martin clears his throat awkwardly, “I should be getting back to the Archives.”

“Of course,” Jon nods, and is Martin crazy or does he look a little disappointed? “Thank you for seeing me, Martin. I know you’re very busy.”

“See you,” Martin says, too distracted by how Jon’s remembered his name to really think about how Jon would know anything else about him at all. The Admiral finally leaves Jon, following Martin out of the room, probably hungry for his dinner. Martin leads the way mechanically, filling the bowl with kibble and absently watching the cat eat.

Tim enters the little kitchen, bending down to pat the cat, “Hello there, Library Cat. Eating your fill?”

“The Admiral,” Martin blurts, and Tim looks up at him, confused.

“It’s…it’s his name,” Martin explains self-consciously.

Tim looks back at the cat thoughtfully, “How’d you figure that?”

“It just fits him,” Martin says, and after a moment Tim nods.

“Admiral it is, then.” Tim straightens, moving toward the fridge and pulling out his lunch. “Hey, would you mind helping me? This case Sasha gave me seems like its freaking out—like that one you had a little bit ago?”

“Of course,” Martin says, and he’s already reaching for two mugs when he asks, “Fancy some tea?”

“You know it,” Tim winks, and Martin thinks that the feeling in his chest belongs in a poem.

Martin shows Tim how to use the tape recorder and actually sits in for a fair bit of it. He’s a bit relieved to know that Tim doesn’t seem to like recording the statements either, a sour look twisting his face. By the time Martin is ready to record his own, he is barely surprised that it refuses to be recorded to his laptop.

He settles into the study room, a fresh mug of tea at his side. This one isn’t as bad as the others. The only thing that unsettles him is the feeling that the nurse reports after the incident, like she is always being watched. Martin had always attributed his own feelings to the worry that he and his coworkers were being haunted. The nurse’s statement suggests that it’s caused by something else—it certainly would not have been the first or last time someone had died there. Martin doesn’t want to think about it.

He hasn’t heard anything from the ghost since that first tape, and he’d be lying if he said he hasn’t been tempted to just try recording to see if he can hear anything else. There are still books sometimes left in odd places and of course the feeling that something is watching you. The more statements he reads, the more he worries about just what might be watching.

Martin shivers as he puts his work away, a chill working into him. Most of the lights are off in the Archives, and he hurries toward the lights at the exit. He passes the Admiral, perched on a cabinet and watching him with too much purpose, and doesn’t stop to pet him goodbye.

When Martin leaves the Institute, he breathes a sigh of relief. Maybe he should talk to Sasha about the statements—about how they make him feel. He’s about to start the walk home when his eye catches a figure leaning against the stone pillars at the bottom of the stairs. It’s the woman he’d seen the morning.

Against his better judgement, he finds himself walking toward her. “Um, hello? Did you—did you need something?”

Her sharp eyes fall to him, and he stops a few feet away. She doesn’t say anything, so he prompts, “You’re the—the policewoman, aren’t you?”

She’s quiet for a few more moments before her hand shoots out. Martin flinches before he realizes she’s holding out her hand to shake. “Daisy,” she says.

“I’m Martin, I work, uh, inside,” Martin takes her hand, and does not let himself react to how tight she grips it.

“I know,” she says, eyes flicking back to the building and tucking her hand back under her arm.

“Al-Alright then,” Martin says, and wishes, not for the first time, that he could just leave things alone.

They stand in awkward silence before Daisy says, “I’m looking for someone.”

“Oh?” Martin asks.

“Yeah,” she nods, “They…They were afraid that their boss was going to kill them. And now…now its like they never existed. So I’m trying to find them.”

“Oh.” Martin says, and he feels a little twisting sensation in his chest. He can’t imagine the fear that person must have been feeling, and they must have been justified if they’ve now disappeared. Martin shivers.

Daisy considers him and then says, “He worked here. Before he disappeared.”

Martin’s forehead creases in confusion, “Are—Are you sure? I feel like I would have heard of someone…disappearing. And I haven’t—at least not in my department.”

Daisy just watches him, like she knows something he doesn’t, which is obvious. Martin’s not sure what that could be. He’s becoming uncomfortable—more than uncomfortable. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I think you can help,” she says, and her teeth flash in the streetlight, but its not a smile.

“I—” Martin gulps, “Okay.”

“Perfect,” she says, and then settles back against the wall, “You’d better get going.”

Martin just nods, resisting the urge to sprint away. The longer he works for the Institute, the more confusing things seem to get. What had Daisy even been implying? That someone in the Institute had _disappeared_ somebody else? “Ridiculous,” Martin mutters, but he can’t help but think of the statements and know that it isn’t—not really.

Martin doesn’t get much sleep that night. He can’t stop thinking that there must be a reason Daisy thinks he can help. She must think he knows something, but he doesn’t—does he? He’s not able to figure it out.

Thankfully, he doesn’t see her on the way into work. He’s once again accosted by Tim as soon as he sets his things down, and he lets Tim talk at him, “You’re not gonna believe this, Martin. I think I caught—no, I _definitely_ caught a paranormal happening or whatever it is you call them. Listen!” Tim shoves the tape recorder into Martin’s hands and fast forwards to where he wants the tape to play.

Martin vaguely remembers that the statement was about some guy who met a girl who’d been mugged by a monster or something. Tim is talking about the follow-up he’s done when he makes a comment, “There was no evidence of arson, but the dude sounded pretty sure that he’d burned the place up. I know _I’ve_ considered it for a hell of a lot less—I practically call the fire department whenever I see a particularly large spider.”

There is a pause as Tim shuffles some papers, perhaps looking for any further information. In that space, there is a scoff, and a man says, “I don’t remember much, but I do remember enough to know I certainly agree.”

Tim hits the stop button, gesturing wildly, “There was no one else in there, I _swear!_ I would’ve heard! Why didn’t I hear…?”

Martin isn’t listening. He can feel the blood draining out of his face, and he feels wide awake now. He knows the voice on that tape.

That was _Jon’s_ voice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guys he's not a cat omg


	3. hurt until my words are out flat

Martin doesn’t know what to think. There’s a sick feeling in his stomach, creeping up into his throat. He doesn’t—he just doesn’t understand. He’s met Jon—he’s touched him even! How in the world could Tim have recorded the man’s voice without knowing? Perhaps it was an echo?

It preoccupies Martin for most of the afternoon, and he ignores Tim’s attempts at wheedling. He doesn’t want to share—doesn’t want the others to think he’s crazy or stupid. He just wants…he wants to talk to Jon. Maybe. Probably.

He doesn’t have a reason to fear Jon, does he? Jon looks…he’s always looked rather tired and a bit thin. Martin’s got some meat on his bones; he could take the man if he had to…couldn’t he? Martin doesn’t know much about ghosts, for all that he’s heard and read in statements. Perhaps he should start there. He’s a researcher, for Christ’s sake!

Martin tries to steady himself, hunching over his pad and attempting to straighten out his thoughts. Where should he even start? He’d never gotten Jon’s last name, if Jon even _is_ his name. Martin decides to work under the assumption that Jon died, if he is a ghost, in or around the Magnus Institute. There has to be some reason he’s haunting this place.

Maybe he just needs to research ghosts in general. If there is anywhere that’s determined anything about ghosts, it has to be here. Once he’s got a decent enough list, he sets about combing through his resources. He starts with recent deaths in the area, and he’s not sure if the feeling roiling in his gut is dread or hope. He doesn’t find Jon or anyone who looks like him.

He finds much more.

An archival assistant, gone missing. A Head Archivist who died under suspicious circumstances. Another missing assistant, though this one happened on a work-related trip. Apparently, the former Elias had even died here, up in the man’s office. Series of freak accidents that had been swept under the rug.

Martin’s never heard any of it before. It makes him sick again, to think of all the misery that this place has attracted and to know that he hasn’t even found what he’s looking for. These are the things that hadn’t been able to be hidden completely; what else is there? Does he even want to know?

Martin jumps the moment a hand lands on his shoulder from behind, flinging his pen into his laptop. He turns suddenly, eyes wide, to see Elias lurking behind him. The man’s got a silky smile, as if he enjoyed Martin’s fear. “Hello, Martin.”

“E-Elias!” Martin’s heart is still pounding against his ribcage, and he’s sure Elias must be able to hear it. “Can I—Is there something you need?”

“Just making the rounds,” Elias says pleasantly, “I noticed you left later than usual last night.”

Martin frowns, because he didn’t recall seeing Elias at all. “Oh, I…I got caught up in a statement. You know how it is.”

“Mm,” Elias nods to the laptop, “Is that what you’re working on now?”

“This?” Martin curses the way his voice pitches higher, “Well—this is a different statement. Um, new one.”

“Right,” Elias’s lips curl, and Martin resists the urge to fling himself over his laptop. “Do be careful, Martin. We wouldn’t want you to…get in over your head again, now would we?”

Martin nods dumbly, and Elias seems satisfied. “Nice seeing you, Martin,” he says as he walks away, towards Sasha’s office. As soon as he’s out of sight, Martin deflates, exhaling as though he’d just run up a flight of stairs. Elias had always been creepy, sure, but now…now Martin’s afraid there’s something else.

“You alright?” Tim asks from his own desk, with an expression that suggests he already knows the answer.

“F-Fine,” Martin says, and then concedes, “Maybe your tape did freak me out a bit.”

“I’m sorry, Martin,” Tim says, and he sounds genuine, “I didn’t mean to do that. I just thought it was…cool.”

“It was,” Martin assures him with a weak smile. Martin hates how Tim is looking at him, reminds him of thin lips curled in disappointment, bony fingers waving him away in annoyance. He doesn’t want to be seen like that.

Martin stands, “I’ll be back in a bit.”

“Okay,” Tim frowns, and Martin knows he watches him leave. He can’t worry about that right now. He’s going to find himself a ghost.

Martin falters as soon as he reaches the hallway, unsure where to really start. It seems that Jon favors the study rooms, but half of them are occupied and the other half are empty. Martin wanders the library idly, trying to not make it too obvious that he’s looking for someone. He half hopes that he will find Jon here, being a normal alive person annoyed at Martin’s paranoia.

There is no sign of Jon. Eventually he has to turn back, defeat sitting heavy on his shoulders. He’s doubting himself more and more with every step, convincing himself how delusional he must be. He nearly trips over the Admiral in his stupor, who yowls to make his presence known.

Martin bends down to pet the cat, who leans into his touch. He can’t stop himself from whispering, “Is he real, Admiral? Or are we both just seeing things?”

The Admiral blinks at him, looking a bit unimpressed. Martin guesses he should be used to it. The Admiral shrugs out from under Martin’s hand and trots away a few feet before looking back at Martin and mewing in annoyance. Martin rises, knees creaking, and the Admiral seems satisfied, pushing a bit more forward before pausing to make sure Martin is following him. The Admiral leads Martin back toward the Archives, toward one of the document storage rooms. Martin follows him curiously, out of other ideas, and pushes the door open swallowing down the apprehension he feels. He shouldn’t really be surprised when he sees Jon, thin body curled over a file, subconsciously mouthing the words to whatever he is reading.

Martin knows that he doesn’t want to believe Jon is a ghost. But there is traitorous, sinking part of him that is telling him he should have known better. Jon has worn the same outfit every time Martin’s seen him. Jon is somewhere he shouldn’t be, reading something he almost definitely shouldn’t be. He knows it was Jon’s voice on that tape.

Jon notices Martin too, and Martin doesn’t miss the split-second smile that flits across Jon’s face before he actually registers where he and Martin are, and the way Martin’s fingers are curled tight against his chest.

“Martin,” he says, his voice a little dry, and how can a ghost have so much life in them? “Nice to…see you.”

“Jon,” Martin forces out as a greeting, letting the door close behind him. The Admiral disappears under the table, toward Jon’s legs. Silence stretches between them, and Jon’s hands are shaking, just a bit.

Finally, Martin asks, with as much dignity as he can manage, “Are you a ghost?”

Jon’s lips twist into a frown and he sighs, “I…I’m not sure.”

“You’re—You’re _not sure?”_ Martin purses his lips, some of his fear abating. It is easy to talk to Jon, undead or not.

Jon flinches defensively, “I—I didn’t _ask_ for this, okay? I’m not some hermit wandering around your place of work. I’m just—I’m just here.”

“But you’re not _here_ here, are you?” Martin thinks of Tim, “Because Tim’s got a recording of you that he could only get if you were in the room with him, and he swears no one was.”

Jon pales at that, pulling the pile of papers closer to him, as if it were some sort of shield. “I…Most people can’t see me or hear me, no. So I may sit in, sometimes, when I hear of a recording. It’s—there’s not much in this place for entertainment besides the information. I was just curious.”

Martin thinks of the sigh he once recorded, how familiar it sounds now, and shudders. Jon had been in the room with him—had seen Martin struggle with the weight of the statement. How much else has Jon seen that Martin thought he hid perfectly well?

Jon’s voice is soft, “I am sorry, Martin. I didn’t…I know its invasive and perhaps a bit creepy…”

“Why can I see you?” Martin cuts him off, his voice a bit panicky, “Why me?”

Jon hesitates, “I don’t…I don’t know. I’ve spent months in this state with no one ever glancing my way or batting an eyelash when I speak. I was as surprised as you. I wasn’t used to interacting with people anymore—if that’s something I ever was. I don’t…” Jon huffs, looking away, “I’m afraid I’m unable to recall things about myself I should be able to. I don’t know who I was before I was trapped here. There are little things…My name was Jon. I’m fairly certain of that now. I liked cats. I think…” Jon trails off again, swallowing, unable or unwilling to finish his thought.

Martin softens, “You’re…you’re trapped here?”

Jon looks up at Martin, surprise clear in his eyes, “Yes. I can’t leave the property. When I try, things get…foggy. I’m not entirely convinced anything exists outside of this building at all. But you all come and go, so there must be something there.”

Jon sounds very matter of fact about something that sounds very painful to Martin. “You don’t know how you…” _Died,_ Martin wants to say, but refuses, “…ended up here?”

“No,” Jon says, his voice going sour, “I just _was,_ one day. I know...I know there must have been a reason. But I…” Jon swallows thickly, “I’m afraid that if I ever knew it, I’ve forgotten it. Things are…they’re hard to hold onto here, especially from whoever I was before.” Jon looks at him, and Martin’s breath catches at how beautiful he looks in this moment. “It’s only since I’ve met you that I’ve started to recall some things. Nothing important, of course, but…”

“Oh,” Martin says, though it comes out more like a whisper. He clears his throat and says, “I’m sorry.”

Jon blinks at him, confused, “For what?”

“You must be very lonely,” Martin says. “I would be—if it were me. Scared too.”

Jon colors at that, but he does his best to keep looking at Martin. “It’s not your fault.”

“Still,” Martin says, soft. He can’t really handle the way Jon is looking at him, so he says, “I looked you up, you know.”

“Oh?” There is an echo of contained hope in Jon's voice.

“Yeah,” Martin nods, “You’re, uh, a hard man to find. Jon is a pretty common name.”

Jon deflates, just a little, “I suppose that’s true. I’m afraid I’ve got nothing else to give you. My last name might’ve started with a B. It’s hard to explain, but it feels like an important letter to me.”

“Oh,” Martin fumbles for his notebook, “That could be helpful! A-Anything else?”

Jon watches him for a moment, before hesitantly adding, “I think I know the Admiral—the cat.”

Martin’s not expecting that one, “I’m sorry—you _know_ the cat that just wandered in here and took up residence?”

“I think so,” Jon nods, embarrassed, “Or one like him, maybe. It’s strange. He looks at me like he knows me.”

Martin decides to write it down because he’s already talking to a ghost, so why not. Jon glances at the notebook, a little apprehensive, “What are you doing?”

“Taking notes,” Martin says, “I mean…do you mind if I research you some more? Try to figure out what’s going on?”

Jon’s Adam’s apple bobs, and he looks so fragile, “You’d help me?”

“Of course,” Martin says, and he doesn’t have to think about it. He likes Jon, attractiveness aside. He doesn’t want Jon to just suffer here, lonely forever. Perhaps there’s some way to make him go into the light or crossover or something.

“Thank you,” Jon says, and it almost sounds reverent. Martin can feel his own cheeks color. “I must admit, it is infuriating: being a mystery.”

“Well, I love a good mystery,” Martin says before he can stop himself. He plows past it, determined not to show his embarrassment, “There’s got to be something we can do. This is the Magnus Institute, for Christ’s sake. We’ve got to have some kind of answers.”

Jon smiles, and so does Martin. “I hope so,” Jon says, and then quieter, “I’m glad to have met you, Martin.”

Martin can’t prevent the fluttering in his chest or the heat that rises to his cheeks. He’s only human. He has to talk around his smile, a shy thing that won’t seem to go away, “I’m glad to have met you as well, Jon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry these chapters are so short!!


	4. all the corners of you, all the bones that i knew

Martin can tell that Jon is getting frustrated. There is so much the man doesn’t seem to know, but that he should. “There’s still nothing you can think of for why you’d be trapped here?” Martin asks, face scrunched as he reviews the few notes he’s managed to piece together.

“Not since the last time you asked,” Jon says drily, but then flinches. “I’m…I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.”

“It’s okay,” Martin says, a phrase that rolls easily off of his tongue, “I get it. I mean—I don’t, not really. But I can…sympathize.”

Martin glances down at his notes again. Jon approximates that he’s been this way for at least six months, though he admits time is something he struggles with, so it could be longer. The Admiral is an obvious connection, but they haven’t figured out to what just yet. Martin thinks the cat must have been Jon’s, but Jon isn’t so sure.

“What about Sasha James? Head Archivist? She’s worked here for a bit,” Martin tries.

Jon thinks, fingers clenching and unclenching into a fist, “I don’t think so. I know of her, obviously, from my time here. But I can’t recall anything about her that I haven’t learned by, er, eavesdropping.”

It was the same with Tim. Martin had hoped for a connection there, especially because of that weird look he’d caught the other day, but that was a dead end. Martin is grasping at straws, “What about Elias Bouchard?”

“Who?” Jon says, and it’s like something shifts in Martin’s brain.

“Elias,” Martin repeats, “He’s Sasha’s boss? Office up on the second floor? Right at the top of the stairs…”

Jon frowns, voice hesitant, “I…I’ve never seen an Elias.” Jon swallows, his fist flattening palm-down onto the table. “I’ve been here for months, Martin. There’s no office up there. I would know.”

“Jon,” Martin says, and he’s not sure if its excitement of dread creeping into his voice. “I’ve been in there. There was even a policewoman…”

 _I’m looking for someone. Now it’s like they never existed. He worked here._ Daisy’s words ring around his head, and he can’t believe he hadn’t thought of it before. “Oh my god,” he says, and he blinks at Jon.

“What?” Jon asks, and he looks a bit anxious, “What is it?”

“There was a policewoman here, the other day. She was looking into a disappearance, or at least that’s what she said. A man who used to work here…” Martin looks at Jon with wide eyes, “Jon, what if that’s you?”

“I mean…” Jon shifts, “Wouldn’t I _know_ if I worked here? How could I disappear at a place I _worked_ at?”

Martin knows for certain that the feeling in his gut is dread. His voice is soft, as if they aren’t the only two people in the room, “I think…I’m afraid that Elias might have had something to do with it.”

“Your boss’s boss,” Jon clarifies, and his look is sour. It seems to needle at him, that there is something else he doesn’t know that he _definitely_ should if he’s been loitering around the place this long. If Martin wasn’t talking to a man that barely existed, he’d be more skeptical that Jon didn’t know of someone who very much did.

“Maybe he took your place, or something,” Martin says, a bit wildly, “I mean, there’s got to be some reason you’ve never—you can’t see him.”

“I agree that it’s suspicious,” Jon says, “but what about this policewoman of yours? Didn’t she give you a name or something?”

“We…” Martin grimaces, thinking of her fingers wrapped around his arm, “It was a brief meeting. But she seemed to think I could help, somehow. And I’m the only one who can see you. There’s got to be something there.”

“Maybe,” Jon murmurs, looking away.

Martin feels something in his chest contract, “What? Don’t…don’t you agree?”

“I’d like to,” Jon tries to smile, “but, Martin…what if there isn’t a reason? What if this is all just coincidence? I’ve been here for months, and no one’s cared to come looking before…”

That thing in Martin’s chest twists, and he wants to reach across the table to Jon. He sighs instead and says softly, “Jon…we’re going to figure this out. I promise.”

Jon looks at him like he doesn’t quite believe the words, but he doesn’t object, either. Martin feels his resolve harden, “I’m going to reach out to Daisy. She must know more about this missing person of hers.” Martin ignores Jon’s skeptic look, “Even if its not you, it could be helpful to know about them. Maybe you’re connected.”

“Perhaps,” Jon concedes and then sighs, “Is there anything I should do?”

Martin pauses, a little unsure, “You could, uh, try to find some more things that you recognize. Hopefully, we’ll both have made progress for next time we meet.”

Jon’s voice is soft, a little hesitant, “And when will that be?”

“Oh,” Martin blinks. He hadn’t considered how…odd their relationship is. It’s not exactly like they can text. “I suppose I’ll have to find you again…? If you come across anything or want to talk, well, my desk is pretty easy to spot.”

“Okay,” Jon says, and Martin thinks he looks just a bit sadder. Jon looks up at him suddenly, shoulders tense, as if he is struggling to get the words he wants out, “I look forward to it, Martin. It really is…refreshing—to be seen and heard. It means…I do appreciate it.”

“Good,” is all Martin can think to stutter, “I’m not—I won’t be going anywhere.”

It’s only once Martin’s down the hall that he realizes he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to contact Daisy. He could ring the police station, he supposes, but what is he to say? “I met a ghost I think you’re looking for?” Perhaps she’ll meet him outside again.

Martin doesn’t have long to ruminate on it, Sasha calling him into her office as soon as she hears him approach. Thoughts of Jon and Daisy drop from Martin’s mind almost completely when he catches sight of her. Sasha looks tired, lines around her eyes and stray hair slipping from her bun.

“There you are, Martin,” she says, and she sounds only a bit annoyed. “I need you to look into this statement for me. I was planning on researching it on my own, but Tim’s found something a bit concerning, and I won’t have time to get around to this.”

Martin feels himself flush, and clutches his notebook a little closer to his chest, “The—The ghost thing?”

“What?” Sasha looks up at him in confusion before she shakes her head, “Oh, no, not that. I mean, if all we’ve got lurking about is an arachnaphobic ghost with all that’s in these statements, we’ve got it pretty lucky, haven’t we? No, Tim thinks he might’ve stumbled onto something…well, let’s just say it’s a bit of a bigger fish than our ghost.”

“Oh,” Martin says, and the relief that pulses through him is almost embarrassing. He doesn’t want to share Jon, not yet, even though he knows its selfish. “Sasha, are you alright?”

“Just a bit tired,” Sasha assures him, but there’s something that strains her face.

“Alright,” Martin leaves it, stepping forward to snatch the statement and return to his desk. He returns a few minutes later with a steaming cup of tea in each hand, and places it on her desk without a word. Sasha barely glances at him, but he does catch a brief smile of thanks. He’s alright with that. The tea will warm her up.

He soon finds that his own tea can do little to comfort him when he reviews the statement, she’s given him. Perhaps fate is truly something to be believed in, or perhaps a cosmic deity is just fucking with him. Statement 0172804 is of a man with no name who seems to have become an outsider looking in on his own life until that life no longer exists, who explains this by using a fucking poem. There is nothing for Martin to really follow up on—not without a name or a date. The author’s identity is frighteningly absent, though he must have been someone to have written it at all.

Martin has to swallow down the fear that this statement belongs to Jon. He imagines Jon, ghosting his way into the Institute to make his statement and then forgetting that he ever had anywhere else to be, drifting through the world untethered. Except that it couldn’t be quite right, because the author was tethered to stairs for some odd reason. Martin had never seen Jon on any stairs.

It is a fragile theory, he knows, but he can’t help it. Martin decides not to record the statement, tucking it instead into his notebook. He doesn’t want to think about it anymore and decides to do something else that makes him only a bit less nervous. Martin tries to find Daisy online, searching a combination of “Daisy” “police” “missing persons” and any other related terms, but he doesn’t find anything helpful. He’s beginning to doubt that Daisy even actually belongs to the police, but he has no other leads.

Martin gets transferred around a lot until he finally reaches a woman with a rich voice who grunts, “Hello?”

“H-Hello? Is this Daisy?” Martin swallows.

“No,” the voice says and there’s an awkward pause. “I’m her partner, Basira Hussain. What do you need?”

“Oh, uh,” Martin finds he’s not quite sure what to say, “She’s working on a—a missing persons case. I think I’ve got some information for her, but I’m not quite sure how to reach her.”

“Who is this?” Basira asks, and her tone makes Martin nervous.

“Martin Blackwood? I, um, I work for the Magnus Institute in the Archive department,” Martin wishes that he didn’t sound so suspicious, barely able to blurt out his own name.

“Hm,” Basira says, and the line is quiet for a moment. “Alright. She’ll be in touch with you.”

“Do you need my infor—?” Martin starts, but the line is already dead. It does not make him feel any better about the current situation.

The Archives are too empty, too quiet, and it makes Martin feel very alone suddenly. He’s not, he knows, because he can hear Sasha typing something in her office and the distant ring of a telephone. He wonders if this is how Jon feels, even when he’s standing in the middle of a crowded room. It’s not a nice feeling.

Time passes slowly for the rest of the afternoon, Tim only reappearing later. He’s got a pamphlet for something clutched in his hand, and he stuffs it into one of his drawers roughly, like he’s got something against it. All of his good cheer from this morning seems to have disappeared. “Everything alright?” Martin ventures, and almost regrets it when he sees the hard look in Tim’s eyes.

“False lead,” Tim practically spits, “A waste of time.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Martin says quietly, and doesn’t ask anymore questions.

By the time five rolls around, Martin practically jumps out of his chair. He wants to be out of here, to be home curled up on his couch with that new edition, to rid himself of the continuous sinking feeling in his stomach. Martin grabs his coat and takes his notebook home with him, just in case. Something tells him its safer that way, instead of being left behind at the Institute.

Martin’s heart almost leaps out of his chest when he realizes that someone beside him is matching their stride to his, until he realizes that its Daisy. She acts like they’re out on a stroll, not like she’s ambushed him on his way home. “Uh…”

“Basira said you had something for me,” She says, and she stops him when he goes to make a turn that’s part of his normal route. She keeps them walking forward instead.

“I…” Martin glances around, though he doesn’t feel that familiar weight of being watched that he does at work. “I wanted to know the name of the person you’re looking for.”

“Why?” She narrows her eyes.

Martin swallows thickly, “I…well, I may have found him.”

“You found him?” She says skeptically, “Just like that?”

“Well, it’s a bit complicated,” Martin allows, “I, uh, I’m the only one who seems to be able to see him.”

Daisy stops them then with a hard stare, backing them out of the flow of foot traffic and off to the side. “Are you ill?”

“I don’t think so,” Martin says defensively, “Look, you said it yourself, this case is weird. Maybe it’s just a little bit weirder.”

“Maybe,” she considers. She looks him up and down, assessing something that he can’t see. “His name was Jonathan Sims.”

Martin’s sure his heart skips a beat. It had been likely, of course, that the two were connected, but now he _knows._ He knows Jon’s last name. Daisy must know by the way he pales that she has hit some sort of mark. “Does he…” Martin clears his throat, “Does he have sort of salt and pepper hair, bit thin, glasses?”

“I don’t know,” Daisy shrugs. At Martin’s look of disbelief she shrugs, “I never met him. He reached out to the department with a tape. It only got to me and Basira because we get the weird things. I guess we were too late.”

The notion that Daisy was _too late_ for Jon makes Martin’s stomach turn. “This is crazy,” he says, a bit breezily, “Real, proper crazy.”

Daisy gives him an unimpressed look, “This is nothing. This world is full of monsters.”

She doesn’t elaborate, and he’s at least grateful for that. “What are…what are we going to do?”

“Why don’t you start from the beginning?” Daisy starts, “Didn’t you recognize Jon? He was your boss.”

“My…boss…?” Martin blinks at her, “That can’t be right. Sasha’s my boss.”

“He was Head Archivist and you’re an assistant. Pretty sure that made him your boss,” Daisy shrugs.

“I don’t remember him,” Martin says, and then as if it makes him feel a little less guilty, “He doesn’t really remember himself either. He only remembered his first name and some really basic stuff.”

“Odd,” Daisy frowns.

“There is one thing,” Martin remembers, “He doesn’t…even though he’s been hanging around the Institute for months, he doesn’t know who Elias is. He claims that Elias doesn’t even have an office—that he can’t see it.”

“Figures,” Daisy grunts, and her lips twist into something angry, “I knew he was behind it. He thought he was so well protected…”

“So…you’re going to arrest him?” Martin asks.

“No,” she says immediately, “I need more. There’s got to be something in that office of his. I need to get in there again.” Daisy turns her shark smile onto Martin, “And you’re going to help me.”

Martin gets the feeling he can’t say no, so all he says is, “I can’t do it tonight.”

“That’s fine. Go home,” Daisy looks down at her phone, “Give me your number. I have some things to look into, but I’ll be in contact when I’m ready.”

Martin types his number into his phone numbly, and before he knows it, she has taken off into the street, disappearing out of view. Martin stands there for a few moments, trying to process what’s just happened. He can’t stop thinking of Jon’s full name. Eventually someone bumps into him and brings him back to reality.

He has to take a different route home since Daisy has taken him so out of the way. Martin tries to focus on his surrounding, tries not to let himself be pulled into panic. He is passing a nondescript wall when his eyes catch sight of a flyer, posted cleanly to the brick. It is a picture of a lost cat with contact information underneath it. Martin finds himself swallowing down bile as he reads “The Admiral” typed neatly under the picture of the familiar cat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i've resigned myself to the fact that i'm going to be reading/writing more fluff and au and generally in denial things after last week's episode bc Mr. Sims is going to hurt us


	5. where the hurt never meant starts to linger

Martin barely sleeps. He can’t stop thinking about the flyer he’d ripped off of that brick wall, sitting innocently on his kitchen counter. It taunts him the next morning as he prepares his tea with shaky hands. He has to call the name on the flyer, obviously. It’s the right thing to do—the only thing to do. The Admiral deserves to be home. Of course, he does.

But Jon deserves to know about his past and the Admiral is connected to that, as must be his owner. Martin has to admit to himself to that he’s terrified. There are so many threads and they have to pull them all, no way of knowing what will happen. What if there’s a reason Jon doesn’t remember his past? What if he’s better off the way he is?

No. Martin has no right to determine that, and Jon wants to know.

Martin leaves earlier than he normally would, ghosting through the light traffic of early morning commuters. They don’t pay him any mind, blinking through bleary eyes and sinking into the sounds of their earbuds. It almost makes him feel better—normal.

Martin is sure he’s going to be the only person in the Institute this early, but Sasha’s office light is on. His heart thumps against his chest as he approaches her door, trying to step as silently as possible. There is an equal chance that she just forgot to turn off her light or there’s a murderer in her office after what he’s learned.

Martin swallows as he leans against the door, one fist clenched as he uses the other to push the handle. The door creaks annoyingly loud, causing his heart rate to spike, but he pushes forward anyway.

Sasha is asleep at her desk. Martin blinks, concerned. What could possibly have been so important that she’d stay here late enough to fall asleep? He creeps forward, peeking at her desk. There is a faded flyer for a circus of some sort, a police report, and a hastily scribbled list that looks like it could be for museums. There are more files under Sasha’s cheek, but Martin can’t make them out.

He approaches her as gently as possible, murmuring, “Sasha?” After a moment, he pokes her on the shoulder.

She sighs and begins to blink before sitting up so quickly that Martin almost stumbles back in surprise. “Are you alright?” Martin asks, watching as she takes in her surroundings.

“Ugh,” Sasha wipes drool from the corner of her mouth, shaking her head, “I guess I fell asleep. Yikes.”

“What were you working on?” Martin asks, confused.

Sasha hesitates, answering, “I think I’ve found a strange connection between some of the statements. Certain names keep popping up. I was just a bit concerned.”

“Oh,” Martin frowns, “Anything I should be on the lookout for?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Sasha says, just a bit too quickly. Her eyes narrow, “What are you doing here so early?”

Martin feels himself color, but it’s not like he’s been doing anything _bad._ “I just couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d get an early start.”

Sasha considers him for a moment, and it reminds Martin why he’s always been so tentative around her. After a beat, she says, “Right. Well, I’d better grab a cuppa if I’m going to be of any use today.”

She stands and motions for Martin to leave, shutting her office door tight behind her. Martin frowns, watching as she walks toward their small kitchen. He’s worried about her, for sure, and a little bit offended. Sure, he’s not exactly qualified, but her tone suggested something else—that he was untrustworthy or something. A little voice in his head can’t help but remind him that he is. He’s investigating a missing person probably caused by someone here at the Magnus Institute, a missing person who supposedly held Sasha’s position, behind their backs. There’s something roiling in his gut—he doesn’t like what’s overcome the Institute. Although, if his research is anything to go by, whatever it is has been here a lot longer than Martin has.

“Martin?” A soft voice behind him nearly causes Martin to stop breathing, and he whirls around as an automatic response.

“Jon!” Martin hisses, his heart trying to catch up on the beats it’s just skipped, “Jesus!”

“Sorry,” Jon says, but the soft smile playing on his lips suggests otherwise. He glances around, “Isn’t it a little early for you to be here?”

Martin tries not to think about Jon keeping a close enough eye on him that he knows when he comes and goes. It doesn’t _mean_ anything. “I…” Martin glances down at the notebook in his hand, “I needed to talk to you.”

“Okay,” Jon nods, but his voice is heavier than it was a few moments ago, like he’s sure it’s bad.

Martin leads Jon to his desk, where he can lay everything out. He isn’t quite sure where to start, so he fiddles with the papers as they sit there awkwardly. Finally he says, “I, um, I know your name.”

Jon blinks at him, “My name?”

“Yeah,” Martin scratches at the nape of his neck, “That policewoman—Daisy, she caught up with me last night. She wants…well, we need to do a bit more digging. But apparently…your name is Jonathan Sims. You were the Head Archivist here. You sent a tape to the police department because you were afraid that your boss was going to kill you. Daisy…Daisy thinks she got it too late.” Martin swallows thickly, glancing at Jon from the corner of his eye.

Jon is staring at Martin’s notes, the cogs clearly turning in his mind. He doesn’t look…well, its hard to tell how he looks. He’s certainly not happy, but he’s not crying or anything either. It more looks like he’s just trying to _understand._ Hesitantly, Martin murmurs, “Jon?”

Jon shakes his head, echoing quietly, “My name is Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London…” Jon clears his throat. “I remember a bit. I know that’s my name, and I know that I was hired for that position. I…I think I was surprised, when it happened. I don’t think I was really qualified. Must not have been, if my boss wanted to kill me.” Jon attempts a smile, but Martin just stares at him.

Martin knows what its like to be unqualified—he’d lied on his resume to get this job in the first place. Jon seems much more qualified than Martin ever was. “The last Archivist, before Sasha, she disappeared. I guess it was under mysterious circumstances. Maybe…maybe you found out more about it? Something you weren’t supposed to?”

Jon seems to be deflating now, as if the knowledge is really sinking into him, “It would look bad for two people in the same position to disappear under mysterious circumstances, wouldn’t it?”

Martin’s lips twist, “Well, I’d say your disappearance was a lot more…effective. There was no record of any Jonathan working here on the computers. That was the first place I checked. You would have been my boss, I’m guessing, but I swear I didn’t know that when I met you.”

“So I’ve died,” Jon says, matter-of-factly, “and the coverup was so extreme that its like I was never alive in the first place.”

Martin wants to protest, feels like admitting that Jon is probably dead is poor etiquette. “Well…we don’t know for sure that you’ve died. There’s this statement,” Martin scrambles for the right papers, “I came across it after last time we talked. To be honest, I was a little afraid that _you_ were the statement giver. This person basically disappeared from their own life—no name left, no one recognizing them for who they were…”

Jon’s long fingers pull the statement towards himself, and he reads intently. Martin can’t stop watching his eyes—the intense focus that he takes every word in with is almost intoxicating. “Martin,” Jon finally says when he’s finished, and for some reason it makes a shiver run down Martin’s spine. There is something so…familiar about it. “This person pretty much admits that they’re dead.”

Martin can feel the heat beginning to bloom in his cheeks, “I don’t think dead people can give statements.”

Jon considers him for a moment, and then really does smile, just a bit, “Fair enough. I just mean…does it really matter whether I’m dead or just… _unseen?_ Either way, I’m trapped here.”

“Of course it matters,” Martin insists, “We might be able to, I dunno, reverse whatever’s doing this to you. You deserve to know what’s been done to you—w-whatever it is.”

Martin finds Jon staring at him with such wide, soft eyes that he has to look away. Jon clears his throat, “Thank you, Martin. Truly.”

Martin’s always been a little uncomfortable being acknowledged after years of being very much not so, so he taps another paper on his desk. “There’s something else, too. I found this on my way home last night.” He pushes over the missing cat flyer.

“That’s the Admiral,” Jon murmurs.

“Do you recognize the name?” Martin asks, and he pretends he’s not anxious to know the answer.

Jon considers it for a few moments, “Barker…”

When Jon doesn’t really give an answer, Martin moves on, “I mean, I’m going to call them, because we have their cat, but I just didn’t want to do it without talking to you. What if they come storming in, all upset that we’ve kept their cat hostage?”

“She wouldn’t,” Jon says, seemingly without thinking. His face pinches at the words, as if he’s confused that they even came out at all.

“She?” Martin asks.

“Georgie,” Jon says. He speaks slowly, as if he’s trying to put it all together, “It’s strange…I don’t _know_ her, but at the same time, it’s like I have a feeling of her…on the very outside of my consciousness. She’s nice—nicer than I deserved. She’s stubborn. She…loved cats and I did too. She brought the Admiral home one day and it felt… _right.”_

Martin sighs, “You were…together? Are together?”

Jon either doesn’t notice the waver of disappointment in Martin’s voice or doesn’t acknowledge it. He thinks harder, temples creasing, “Once, I think so. But those feelings are barely there. It’s hard to explain.”

“Okay…” Martin own brows furrow, “So you got a cat with your ex, who just happened to show up at your former place of work where you may or may not have died?”

“Seems that way,” Jon shrugs.

“Good. Great. Cool,” Martin shakes his head, “None of this makes any sense.”

Jon opens his mouth to respond, but he doesn’t get the chance to say anything. “Who’re you talking to?” Tim asks, staring at Martin with his bag half-slung over his shoulder. Martin nearly jumps out of his skin for the second time that morning, and he knows that he looks guilty. He’s not quite sure what to say. “Yourself?” Tim prompts, and Martin realizes that Tim’s gaze glides right over Jon. Jon doesn’t seem that surprised by it.

“Y-Yeah,” Martin says, doing his best to pull himself together, “Sorry you just scared me. I’m just trying to make sense of this statement. It’s a bit irritating.”

“Sounds like it,” Tim nods, setting his stuff down on his desk. He glances toward Sasha’s office, to which she still hasn’t returned.

“She’s getting some breakfast, I think,” Martin supplies, “Seemed like she had a bit of a rough night.”

“Right,” Tim murmurs, and there is that quick flash of concern before it’s flattened out and Tim smiles. Martin wonders how fake it is. “You want some help with that statement?”

“Call Georgie,” Jon says, standing, “Set up a meeting if you can. I’ll be around.”

“Uh, sure,” Martin nods, eyes flicking toward Jon and then back to Tim, “I’m not sure how much you’ll be able to. The case is pretty sparse.”

Martin doesn’t watch Jon walk away, focusing instead on separating the no-longer relevant statement from the rest of his notes. He notices that Tim looks a little tired too, stress in the lines of his face that Martin doesn’t recall ever seeing. For a moment, Martin feels a surge of satisfaction that he’s at least got his own little secret, just like Tim and Sasha. But then he feels guilty and decides not to push the issue.

Tim does try to help Martin find some sort of evidence to look into, but eventually they call it quits and Martin agrees to record the statement as-is. Sasha seems a little more collected when she returns, and eventually the three of them are working in companionable silence. Martin doesn’t try to seek Jon out or make his call to Georgie Barker, even so.

The stair statement is another one of the tape ones, even without the follow-up information available, so Martin settles into his little study room once he has time. He uses the privacy to pull out his phone and the flyer before he hits the record button on the tape. After a few minutes of psyching himself up, he hesitantly calls the number on the flyer and is honestly a little relieved when it goes to voicemail. The woman’s short message sounds nice enough, which eases his anxiety enough that he’s able to leave a somewhat coherent message with his name and number, explaining that he thinks he may have found her cat. He sets his phone aside just in case she calls back and does his best to pretend he’s not glancing at it every fifteen seconds into the recording.

It’s about fifteen minutes into the statement that his phone vibrates against the table, causing his voice to waver. He pauses the recording immediately, fingers scrabbling to unlock his screen so that he can read the message. It’s a text from a number he doesn’t recognize, and his heart sinks as he reads it.

**Be ready tonight. Need to get into E’s office. Make sure building is clear. -D**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry that this chapter took so long. i am not sure when i'll post another. there is a lot going on in my life and i find it harder and harder to feel like i'm writing something worthwhile


	6. enter the gods and all the sacred signs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i ran out of lyrics from waste lmao

If there is one thing Jon has, its time. It is a tricky thing—something he has trouble keeping track of himself. Sure, the light rises and falls outside the windows of the Magnus Institute, but has an hour passed or four? How long has it been since Jon has looked up from whatever he’s stuck his nose into? He’s never tired or hungry, so that’s no way to tell. It is, honestly, irrelevant to him most of the time. In those first confusing weeks, he had clung to any sense of time or space or anything that would convince him that he was sane, but that need had been seeped out of him.

Time is relative. To Jon, it doesn’t matter if time is passing or not. It all feels the same, either way. There is no one else here in this pocket of the universe that can tell him otherwise. All things considered; it is not entirely a horrible existence. The Magnus Institute is a monument to knowledge, and that is something that has not been taken away from Jon. So he reads and he listens, and he observes, and he exists. It is all he can really do.

Until there is something else. Jon can be heard, be seen, be observed. Jon can hold a _conversation,_ something he must have done billions of times before he couldn’t anymore. He thinks he liked to talk before—if there was a before. There must have been a before, Jon is sure, because people don’t just spring into existence with bags under their eyes and streaks of grey in their hair. Something had to bring him to this point. He doesn’t know what.

Martin is determined to find out, though. Jon is out of practice wanting things, but when he sees all the work Martin has put into unraveling whatever Jon’s caught in, he thinks he wants to know too. He’s not sure what difference it will really make, but if he gets to continue his conversations with Martin that’s at least one benefit.

Jon has begun keeping time again. When Martin arrives, its morning. When Martin gets his second cup of tea, it nearly noon. When Martin records, its usually in the early afternoon. When Martin leaves, the day is over.

Jon knows it’s strange—to have someone nobody else can see hanging around. He’s tries to keep his distance, because he doesn’t want Martin to get sick of him. These are the times when Jon can find companionship in the Admiral. The cat will often hover nearby as Jon finds a secluded area to read, or a new box of papers to poke through. It finds its own comfort in Jon when it wants to, butting up against him.

Sometimes the cat looks at Jon with something more in its eyes. For a being who is so used to not being seen, it makes the hair at the nape of Jon’s neck stand up. Eventually the look will fade away, and Jon pretends it doesn’t bother him.

For all that Jon has learned in his months perusing the Magnus Institute, there is not much he knows about himself. He knows his name is Jonathan Sims now, thanks to Martin. There is a phrase that almost rolls itself off of his tongue when he thinks about his name: Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, Magnus Institute, London. Jon lets himself into the Head Archivist’s office with renewed purpose. He sits in the chair, tries to recall something about the objects he’s seen a hundred times before with no recollection.

He knows little things. The second drawer on the left squeaks when opened. The corner of the ceiling only has cobwebs in it because he had meticulously cleaned it before. Without realizing it, he’s lifted a pen up and pressed the end of it just under his lip, clearly a subconscious habit despite not having a need to use a pen for weeks. Jon sits for awhile like this, considering the walls and the various odds and ends Sasha has lying around. He wonders if any of it was his.

Sasha’s desk is littered with papers. Jon scans over the various documents, not truly interested. There is a police report of a young man named Daniel who seemed to have gone missing a few years ago with various pictures clipped to it. Some are clear, snapshots of everyday life, while one is blurry, barely recognizable. Beside that is a stack of papers, copies of statements, with a few names highlighted: Breekon, Hope, and Orsinov. Sasha has scribbled some notes in the margins, something about a circus, but Jon doesn’t care to look much further.

He sighs, but his interest is once again piqued when he sees the corner of a file sticking out underneath the rest of the mess that he’s sure he’s not looked through yet. If Jon still had a beating heart, it probably would have stopped when he opened the file to see a photo of Martin.

It’s a copy of the man’s resume and what Jon assumes is his staff photo. Parts of it are highlighted as well, some things circled. Sasha has more notes here, though they are sparser and seem more like shorthand. Jon studies them carefully, confused. The notes paint Martin as someone suspicious: why is he in his position with a Master’s? Where does he disappear to every third Sunday? Is he really who he says he is?

Below Martin’s is Tim’s, though significantly less is circled. The most prominent note here is that he could be an agent of the “other side” rather than the “real” Tim. For all intents and purposes, her ramblings teeter on that of someone Jon may call crazy. At best, Sasha is clearly paranoid. Jon can remember echoes of that feeling, the tightness in his chest every time the door opened. He’d been so sure that they…whoever _they_ were…could not be trusted. That’s why he’d installed the false bottom in the last drawer on the right.

It takes Jon a few moments to realize he’s just remembered something. Heart in his throat, he scrambles for the drawer, yanking it open and prying past the junk in there. His fingers prod around and find whatever they’re looking for easily, as if he’s done this a hundred times. Eventually the bottom lifts, and the waft of old paper rolls over Jon like a freight train.

He’d kept things in here. He’d felt the need to hide information from his coworkers. He was sure that one of them had killed the previous Archivist. Or did he _know_ that? _How_ did he know that? Jon forces himself to take a deep breath and begins to sort through the contents of the drawer. There are quite a few tapes, though none of them are labeled. Deeper in the drawer are papers that look to be statements at first glance. Jon recognizes his own handwriting on a lot of them, furious scribbles that could be construed as essays rather than comments. Jon’s fingers close around something small and cold when he realizes that he can hear voices outside of the door. He freezes, his hand caught in the proverbial cookie jar. It sounds like Tim and Sasha. They’re not exactly arguing, but Tim seems to be trying to convince her of something. It sounds like they come closer to the door, almost like they’re going to enter before drifting away after a few moments.

Jon waits until he’s satisfied with the quiet and begins to gather up everything in the drawer. He steals a mostly empty accordion binder and stuffs everything in. He shouldn’t spend much more time in here. Besides, if there is anything Jon has, its time enough to go through his things somewhere more secluded.

* * *

“I’m looking for Martin Blackwood?” A short woman with curly hair asks, and Martin tries to unclench his fists.

“That’s me,” he assures from his desk, hoping it looks like he was working instead of having an existential crisis about breaking into his shady boss’s office. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Georgie,” the woman sticks her hand out, “You called about my cat?”

“Oh,” Martin blinks, “Oh, yeah. I didn’t—I didn’t realize you’d come so soon.” He shakes her hand a little reluctantly. “You’re the Admiral’s owner?”

“The one and only,” she nods, but something flickers across her face. “He’s always been bold, but I didn’t think he’d sneak out like he did.”

“He certainly is…sure of himself,” Martin agrees, desperate for a way to shift the conversation to where he needs it to be. It would be better if Jon would magically appear like he had a habit of doing, but Martin feels like that’s a long shot at this point. “Any idea why he’d come here? He hasn’t tried to leave or anything.”

“Not really,” Georgie says, and she seems honest, “I’ve never been here before. I thought one of my friends worked here…” her eyes seem to cloud for a moment, as if she’s struggling to remember something.

“Oh?” Martin prompts, sitting up straighter at his desk.

Georgie shakes her head, “No, it must have been somewhere else. I haven’t seen them in quite a while, anyhow.”

“Are you sure? What’s their name? Maybe they do work here,” Martin tries, aware of how much he is _not_ pulling nonchalance off.

Georgie shrugs glancing away, “To be honest, I don’t remember them all that well. Is my cat here?”

“Oh, yeah, ‘course,” Martin stands awkwardly, “He, uh, he kind of comes and goes. Do you want to come with me or wait here while I find him.”

“I’ll come,” Georgie says, following him as he moves around the desks. “So you’ve been taking care of him?”

“More or less,” Martin says, leading her to where he’s placed the litterbox. “I make sure he’s got enough food and water, otherwise he mostly just lounges around.”

There is no sign of the Admiral, so Martin keeps going to document storage. “Honestly, you never know where he’s going to pop up. I’m not surprised he escaped your home.”

“I suppose there’s worse places he could’ve ended up,” Georgie sighs, peeking around one of the shelves to see if she can spot him. “I’m just happy he’s okay.”

“He might be on the other side,” Martin admits, “If I’d known you were coming, I would have rounded him up earlier.”

“It’s alright,” Georgie assures him and the way she says it…Martin believes Jon that she’s nice. It’s something deeper in her, a kindness beyond the superficial. He thinks Jon was pretty lucky to have someone like that in his life.

On the way back through the Archives, they run into Tim and Sasha leaving her office. “Martin!” Tim exclaims, but his smile seems just a bit tight. Or maybe Martin’s just paranoid. “What’re you doing? I thought you were recording that statement.”

“I was,” Martin explains, “This is, um, you know how the cat came off the streets? Well, this is who he came _from.”_

Tim’s eyes widen at Georgie, who just nods. Martin continues, “I caught her poster on the way home last night. I meant to tell you guys but things have been a bit…busy.”

“I can’t believe it,” Sasha says, “I’m so used to the Admiral being around now. Maybe we should get another? Not off the streets this time?”

Georgie’s forehead creases, “Wait…how do you know his name?”

Tim looks confused, “Martin named him.”

Martin doesn’t like what this implies, but he hasn’t got a real explanation for it. The truth sounds just as crazy as any lie anyway. Georgie turns to Martin, and even she seems suspicious. Martin decides to tell a half-truth. “Well…I wasn’t _really_ the one who named him. There was this guy, a professor I think, in the library that was asking after him. He said the Admiral just…looked like one. Lucky coincidence, I guess.”

“Must’ve been,” Sasha says, and Martin fights the urge to flinch.

“Did you know the guy?” Tim asks, though its not quite clear if he’s asking Georgie or Martin.

“I think his name was Jon,” Martin says, “Haven’t seen him since, I think. Must’ve wrapped up whatever project he was working on.”

Georgie peers at Martin, and it feels like she’s looking directly into his brain, seeing the Jon that Martin has very much seen since. “Well,” Sasha finally says, “You should probably get on finding the Admiral. I’m sure your anxious to have him home.”

“Yes,” Georgie nods, but its slow.

“I’ll be back once I find him,” Martin says, beginning to walk Georgie away. He pretends he doesn’t feel their stares on his back.

They walk in silence. Martin decides to check the study room, just for shits and giggles. The door is closed, so he doubts the Admiral’s in there. Martin nearly chokes when he opens the door to Jon, who’s head snaps up from whatever he’s reading. The Admiral is on the table, paws tucked under himself as he watches Jon.

Georgie pushes past Martin, who mouths frantically at Jon. Jon’s gaze drifts toward her and Martin can see that he recognizes her in the way that he softens. She is leaning over the table, scolding the Admiral while smooching him. “Georgie,” Jon says and it’s a smile.

“Hm?” Georgie says, looking over her shoulder, “You say something?”

Martin startles, looking back at Jon with wide eyes, “Uh, no. Just happy to see you guys reunited.”

“Me too,” she says, grinning. Jon seems entranced by her now, and he lifts a hand as if he wants to reach out and touch her. But its clear that she can’t see him—she would have noticed or said something by now. “This little bugger is lucky I love him.”

Jon lowers his hand and sighs, “He is.” Martin feels a twinge in his chest. Georgie glances up again, but she doesn’t see the man staring at her.

“I can show you the way out,” Martin says gently as Georgie scoops the Admiral into her arms. He chirps indignantly, looking toward Jon. Jon raises a hand toward them.

“Goodbye,” Jon says, almost a whisper. The Admiral settles after this, leaning into Georgie’s arm but not moving his gaze from Jon.

“Let’s go,” Georgie says, “Before he gets any other ideas.”

“’Course,” Martin says, and shuts the door softly behind them. Georgie seems to be in slightly better spirits now that she’s got her cat in her arms.

After a few beats of silence she says, “Must be creepy working here.”

“Why’s that?” Martin asks, as if he doesn’t have a million reasons to know what she means.

“Feels like…I dunno, like you’re being watched,” Georgie does her best to shrug. After another beat she says, “Do you believe in ghosts?”

Martin’s heart drops into his stomach, “Uh, why?”

“I run a podcast about them,” she says nonchalantly, “You should give a listen. Maybe even write something in. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of spooky stories from working here.”

“Mm,” Martin hums politely, and stuffs his sweaty palms into his pockets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for all of the support. these comments are really what keep me going, especially during these times <3


	7. have all the colors turned to black and white?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ft barnabas bennett

Martin wants to talk to Jon as soon as he sees Georgie out of the Institute, but he knows he’s pushed his luck enough today. He’s still going to have to _break into_ his boss’s boss’s office. Okay, well maybe he wouldn’t be doing the breaking bit, but he’s definitely going to be an accomplice. Martin decides to throw himself into menial work to distract himself for the last few hours. He almost hopes that Jon will come find him, but Tim and Sasha are the only ones who hang around.

He manages to get through the follow ups for a few cases that don’t require the use of a tape recorder. There is even one statement about an umbrella that’s particularly interesting but doesn’t have evidence that isn’t anecdotal. After a few hours, Martin decides he needs some tea and rises from his desk, one of his calves tingling with the staticky feeling of being asleep. He leans against his desk as he tries to adjust and murmurs, “Tea, Tim?”

Tim’s been engrossed in something seemingly complex while Martin’s ben working. Martin can just make out the list he’d seen earlier on Sasha’s desk. Tim doesn’t even glance up, so Martin repeats a bit louder, “Tim?”

“Hm?” Tim looks up, distracted. His eyes land on Martin and for a moment, Martin feels like everything is normal. But then Tim moves his hand, probably subconsciously, over the papers on his desk.

Martin tries to swallow his hurt, “I asked if you wanted some tea.”

“Oh,” Tim blinks, “Um…yeah, sure. Thanks, Martin.”

“No worries,” Martin smiles, but it feels too stiff on his face. Martin’s leg feels more like a heavy weight now, so he begins to make his way to the kitchen, somewhat hobbling. He really doesn’t know what he’s done wrong, what he’s messed up so badly that everyone is on edge with him. He tries to focus on the repetitive motions of preparing their tea, the one thing he _knows_ he can do right.

Martin hesitates before heading back to his desk, but he doesn’t want Tim’s tea to cool. He places his own tea on his desk before making his way around and heading to Tim’s. Martin presents him with the mug, barely glancing at the screen on Tim’s computer. He can’t stop himself from shuddering back in disgust, “Ugh.”

“What?” Tim doesn’t drink from his mug, just holds it as he watches Martin.

“I hate that place,” Martin admits, nodding to the home page of a wax museum. “Wouldn’t surprise me if we had a whole box of statements from there. Those figures are so creepy…they’re, like, _worse_ than mannequins.”

“How’s that?” Tim asks, and there is a hungry, curious glint in his eyes.

“Well,” Martin shrugs, “It’s like they’ve got fake skin, haven’t they? Some of them look like they’re alive—like they’d just walk out any time they wanted to.” Martin shudders again, “Creepy.”

“You’re right,” Tim says, but it sounds like he’s made a revelation. He looks at Martin with something else now, a bit like he’d used to. He finally takes a sip of his tea and grins, “This is exactly what I needed. Thank you, Martin.”

“Sure,” Martin nods, a bit confused. He glances at the screen one more time before returning to his own desk. Tim seems a bit more animated, like he’s been reinflated. Time passes both slowly and far too quickly after that. The minutes seem to slug by until it’s time that everyone normally leaves, and Martin feels suddenly like he is running out of time even though nothing’s changed.

Martin’s heart nearly stops when he sees Elias making his way toward them, coat slung over one arm. Elias pauses at the point between their desks and Sasha’s office, and Martin wonders how he keeps his posture so straight. “I’m heading out for the evening. Rosie will take care of any messages in my absence.”

“Got a fancy date?” Tim asks, and Martin fights to maintain a straight face. He’ll never know how Tim can talk so easily to people, while Martin prefers the company of a ghost more often than not these days.

“In a manner of speaking.” Elias smiles, “I’ve got dinner plans with the chief of police. An apology of sorts, for the behavior of one of his detectives.”

Martin can tell that Tim’s interest is piqued, but even he has his limits. All that he says is, “I hope its somewhere nice.”

“I’m sure it is,” Elias purrs, tilting his head towards Sasha’s office, “Don’t work yourselves too hard. You really are doing excellently at whipping this Archive into something respectable. I’m very pleased.”

“There’s always more work to be done,” Sasha says from inside her office, and Martin can practically hear the bags under her eyes.

“Don’t I know it,” Elias chuckles, “but do take care, we wouldn’t want you to…burn out.” Elias takes a step back, clapping his hands together gently. “I really must be on my way. Good night everyone.”

Elias is already walking away before any of the three of them can offer their half-hearted sentiments. Martin is actually busy wondering if its possibly to blend into your chair. After a beat or two of silence, Tim finally asks, “Is it just me or does him saying we’re doing good make you want to work _less?”_

“He’s…” Martin searches for the right word, “…daunting.”

“That’s one word for it,” Tim mutters, bending back over his paperwork. “I’ve never met anyone that sounded so _slimy_ before.”

“Yeah,” Martin murmurs, but then he glances back at Sasha’s office. “Um, Tim?”

“Yeah?” Tim responds without looking up, brows pinched in concentration.

“Is, um…” Martin leans forward as much as possible, his voice hushed, “Is Sasha _okay?”_

This seems to get Tim’s attention. He glances at Sasha;s office as well before looking back to Martin, raising his eyebrows. Martin can feel the heat beginning to bloom in his cheeks under Tim’s scrutiny.

“It’s just…” Martin grapples for the polite way to voice his concerns, “She seems awfully tired lately. I mean, I woke her up at her desk. It doesn’t seem very…healthy.”

Tim’s face softens, “She’s…she’s pushing herself really hard. Don’t worry, I’ll make sure she gets home tonight. She just needs some rest.”

“Oh,” Martin leans back in his chair. “Okay. Good,” he says, and he means it.

It’s barely forty-five minutes later when Tim is trying to usher Sasha out of her office. She eventually relents and puts her coat on but stops by Martin’s desk before she leaves. “Alright, Martin?”

“Oh, uh, yeah,” Martin gestures to the report in front of him, “I’m just going to finish up this follow-up. I think I might be onto something, and I’d rather keep going than lose the thread.”

Sasha looks at him for a long moment, before glancing to Tim, who is zipping up his own jacket. “Alright,” she finally says, “Don’t stay too late. I’m not as nice of a wake-up call as you are.”

Martin forces a smile and nods as they bid him goodbye. He pretends to work for another fifteen minutes before he’s finally brave enough to pull out his phone and text Daisy. She arrives another fifteen minutes later, a thick black sweater covering her tattoos. Martin greets her nervously, but she doesn’t spare him a pleasantry. “Your boss should be busy tonight. My partner tipped our chief off that I might have insulted one of his largest backers.” She rolls her shoulders, “You sure its clear?”

“I mean,” Martin forces himself to think of the pounding of his heart, “I think so. Rosie—the receptionist, she didn’t see you, did she?”

“No,” Daisy confirms, “Let’s go. We don’t know how much time we have. Are there any locked doors between us and the office?”

Martin hadn’t even thought about that. There’s one stairwell that needs a staff badge to be swiped before entering, but what if Elias’s office is locked? He doesn’t know how to pick locks. “There’s one,” Martin says, “One that I know for sure.”

“But you can get us past it?”

“Yes,” Martin swallows, fingers brushing against the badge clipped to his pants. “Yes, I think so.”

“Alright,” she says, and begins to move. Martin realizes that it seems like she knows where she’s going, and hurries to keep pace with her.

“Have you been here before?” Martin asks, “Like, a lot?”

“Just the once,” she grins, and her teeth flash white. She brings them all the way to the stairwell where Martin fumbles for his badge and presses it against the black pad. It takes a moment before it shines a green light, and the locks disengage with a loud knocking sound. The upper floors here are quiet, only one or two other administrators having offices and a conference room for meetings.

Martin holds his breath as they stand in front of Elias’s office, Daisy slowly reaching out for the handle.

There is no resistance.

Martin exhales loudly as the door swings open. Daisy steps forward, reaching out to turn on the light. Martin’s only been in Elias’s office a handful of times, and he’d been too anxious to really take in the scenery. A row of filing cabinets line one wall while a bookcase extends across the other. “What are we looking for?” Martin whispers, on edge.

“Evidence,” Daisy says, approaching the heavy desk in the middle of the room. There is a skull in one corner of it, placed in an intricate sculpture of a hand. Martin finds that he instantly hates it.

“He left the door unlocked,” Martin says, “There might not be anything in here.”

“Or maybe he thinks no would ever think to look,” Daisy retorts, kneeling down to investigate the drawers on the desk.

Martin wanders over to the filing cabinets, hesitant to touch anything. They are labelled inconspicuously, seemingly normal files that any administrator would have. Martin pulls the one labelled “Staff” open, flipping through the names at the top of each files. He finds his own and recognizes a few names from the articles he had stumbled onto. He thinks his heart skips a beat when he finds “Jonathan Sims” neatly scrawled across one of the labels. Martin’s fingers hover over the file, unsure if he should take it.

Daisy makes a small noise behind him, so he turns. She is holding a small leather book in her hands and staring into one of the drawers. “Find anything?” he asks, retracting his hand from the filing cabinet.

“Well,” she says, nodding toward the open drawer, “There’s this.”

Martin steps closer and stares blankly into the drawer. “Is that a gun?”

“Yes,” Daisy peers at it, “An old one too, looks like.”

The gun is clearly old but well maintained, half wrapped in a cloth that has splotches of brown stained across it. Martin’s never seen one like it before. “I have to admit, I wasn’t expecting that.”

“There’s this too,” Daisy says, holding out the book, “Seems like a ledger.”

The cover of the book, clearly old as well from its yellowed pages, has a strange symbol of some sort pressed into the leather. It looks like…like an eye. Martin thinks there’s something familiar about it, and realizes this symbol looks as close to anything in the description of one of his statements than anything in Artifact Storage had. “I think this is important,” Martin says, flipping through the stiff pages. He can’t quite make sense of what’s written on the pages. There are several names that seem to come up at multiple points, but there doesn’t seem to be any sort of pattern. Martin taps the cover, “This symbol—I think I’ve heard of it before.”

“This doesn’t help,” Daisy scowls, “Nothing here is concrete. Where did he hide Jon’s body? Did anyone help him?”

“I found Jon’s file,” Martin offers, “Maybe there’s something in there.”

“You think he left a step by step plan on how he was going to murder his employee?” Daisy scoffs, dumping the book back into the drawer. “Even with this gun, it’s not enough to get him. Maybe if we had some proof that it had been used, but the bastard could just say its an antique. He's got connections--he thinks he has enough to protect himself. Why else would he leave all of this laying about? He knows he's too _visible.”_

Martin wants to ask what Elias is too visible for, but her tone suggests that maybe he shouldn’t. Instead, he moves back to the filing cabinet and removes Jon’s file carefully. He pushes the drawer in slowly, as if that will help it looks undisturbed. “What do we do now?” He asks.

“I don’t know,” she grunts, slamming the drawer closed. “I have to think. He had to have slipped somewhere and I’m going to find it.”

Martin is a little afraid of the dedication in her voice. He tucks Jon’s file close to his chest. “I could talk to Jon. Maybe he’s remembered something.”

“Yeah,” Daisy says, but her tone is flippant. Martin doesn’t press. “Let’s go,” she says, glaring at the skull on Elias’s desk, “Nothing here is going to be what we need.”

“Okay,” Martin says without much complaint, hurrying to the door. He takes a deep breath as soon as he steps into the hallway, feeling lighter. Daisy follows behind him, shutting the door. She begins to stalk down the stairs without a word, so Martin follows her, uneasy. This is the latest he’s ever been in the Institute.

They walk in silence back towards his desk, but they both slow as they get nearer. There is the sound of someone talking—a man, loud enough to hear but too quiet to understand. “Do you hear that?” Martin whispers, eyes wide.

“Shut up,” Daisy hisses, hand hovering above her back pocket. “Slowly now.”

They creep forward, and Martin strains to hear the voice. It sounds sort of familiar. He glances around the corner, heart pounding. There is man sitting at his desk, hunched over and listening to something.

Martin realizes it’s Jon. He steps forward without thinking, Daisy groaning with frustration behind him. “Jon?” Martin calls, confused.

Jon stiffens and turns to look, gaze finding Martin easily. He looks upset. He reaches out and clicks the stop button on the tape recorder, long fingers curling into a fist when he’s finished. “Martin,” he says, and he sounds…off, unsettled.

“What is it?” Martin steps closer, heart pounding for a different kind of fear now. “What’s wrong?”

Jon frowns at him and swallows thickly, “We have to talk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted to write this chapter but ended up writing a oneshot instead. got here eventually


	8. i had another dream, i had another life, no one saw the blood on my hands

There is a blend of shame and guilt twisting Jon’s face. Martin has come to recognize the despair that seems to hold Jon, but this is something different—something more. It makes Martin’s insides scramble, and he forces out, “Talk about what?”

Jon sighs, opening his mouth to answer, but glances with wide eyes over Martin’s shoulder. He raises both of his hands into the air and Martin whips around to see Daisy, approaching slowly with her gun drawn. She nods towards Martin’s desk, “Who was it? Did they run?”

Martin’s forehead creases in confusion as he glances back at Jon, “What? It’s—It’s Jon.”

“I take it this is your police friend?” Jon asks, hands still raised.

Daisy’s eyes narrow, but she doesn’t respond. Martin steps in front of Jon. “You can’t see him?”

“There’s no one there,” she says, and her tone suggests she thinks very poorly of his perception.

“There is,” Martin insists. “I told you that…that I was the only one who could see him. You believed me then.”

Daisy shakes her head, but begins to lower her weapon, “I never said I believed you.”

Martin’s not sure what to make of that. He turns back to Jon, “This is Daisy. She’s the one who was looking for you. D’you recognize her?”

“No,” Jon says, “I doubt I ever met any of the police if I ended up in this state.”

“Right,” Martin says. He’s not quite sure what to do—how is this going to work if Daisy can’t hear Jon? Besides Martin and probably Georgie, no one else had heard him, except… “Wait! The tapes!”

“The tapes?” Daisy and Jon say, almost in tandem.

“We could hear you—hear Jon on the tapes before we…met. Maybe, maybe you can hear him now?” Martin moves around Jon, who steps away easily like Martin is repellent. Martin tries not to think about it as he rustles around one of desk drawers. He’s got to have at least one empty tape here with the frequency that he’d started to need them for statements. Finally his fingers close around the cool plastic and pulls it out in victory.

He gingerly ejects the tape that Jon had been listening to and inserts his own, heart pounding. He presses record and turns back to Jon, “Okay, say something.”

“Er…” Jon glances at Daisy, “Something like what?”

Martin huffs and nods to Daisy, “What would make you believe that Jon is here, with us, right now?”

Daisy crosses her arms, stern face set once more. “I don’t think there’s anything that can.”

“Humor me,” Martin huffs, irritation creeping into his edges.

“Fine,” she says, “What am I wearing, right now? What is Martin wearing? Where are you in relation to us?”

Jon hesitates until Martin gives him an encouraging smile. He clears his throat, leaning close to the recorder, “You’re wearing mostly black clothing, Daisy. Your trousers are darker than your shirt, which is long sleeved. Your gun is holstered at your waist, under your jacket.” Jon’s voice turns softer, less nervous, “Martin is wearing a jumper and tan trousers. Martin is standing next to me, and you’re a few feet away.” Jon pauses, looking at Martin, “Good?”

“Let’s see,” Martin says, reaching over to stop the recording and rewind it. The three of them listen intently as the static crackles. Martin’s voice comes through first, and then Jon speaks. Martin and Jon have no problems hearing it, and Martin glances anxiously at Daisy to see if she has too. The tension lining her face tells him that she has. The recording continues as Jon describes Martin and Daisy and eventually comes to a stop.

The three of them sit in silence for a moment. Finaly, Daisy says slowly, “I know that voice. That’s the voice that was on the tape ranting about how his boss was going to kill him.”

“Jon,” Martin nods, “That’s Jon.”

“But how—” Daisy begins, shaking her head, when suddenly her eyes widen. She is staring straight at Jon. Her hand drifts to her belt.

“You can see him?” Martin asks, glancing between them.

Daisy nods slowly, eyes raking over Jon in a way that makes even Martin wary. Jon cautiously raises a hand, “Hello, Daisy. It’s…It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“No fucking way,” Daisy says, and her gun is back up and pointed at Jon in a flash. Martin stumbles back, surprised.

“What are you doing?” Martin cries.

“How do we know this isn’t some trap?” Daisy says through gritted teeth, “The only two people who know about his murder are the _only ones_ who can see him? The only loose ends?”

“Daisy, he was _murdered!_ You said it yourself!” Martin talks quickly, disbelief pitching his voice higher. “He’s the victim!”

“Plenty of monsters start out as the victim,” Daisy says, shaking her head.

“I do not mean you any harm,” Jon insists, hands raised again, “And even if I am…dead, do you think a bullet would hurt me? Look at this logically.”

“One way to find out,” Daisy grins, and Martin finds himself stepping in front of Jon before he knows what he’s doing.

“Stop,” Martin says, “This is crazy. We’re meant to find out how Jon got this way and make sure the one who did it gets punished. _They’re_ the monster.”

Daisy remains quiet for a few moments before the gun lowers once more. “I don’t trust him.”

“You don’t have to trust him,” Martin mutters, “You just have to listen.”

Martin feels a touch on the back of his shoulder that sends tingles down his spine. It’s odd. Jon’s hand is heavy but cold, and doesn’t bring any warmth where it covers Martin’s shoulder. Martin turns around, and that sorrow has seeped back into Jon. “I found some things,” Jon admits, “I…it’s not good.”

“Okay, well, what is it?” Martin asks, swallowing the lump in his throat.

Jon moves slowly, as if he’s dreading the actions, ejecting Martin’s tape and reinserting the one he had been listening to. He presses the rewind button. “I went searching in the Head Archivist’s desk. I found a false bottom and there were some things hidden underneath: a few tapes, some documents, that like. I don’t remember recording any of these tapes—I haven’t listened to them all yet. It seems that I remember…when I have the right triggers in the right places—like in my former office. I’d never sat in that chair before then, thinking about where hidden things might be. The thought just occurred to me when I was in a similar situation.”

“What were you hiding?” Daisy asks, stepping closer to Martin’s desk.

Jon sighs, “From what I can tell, this is an earlier recording. I don’t think it’s the first. There’s no filing system—apparently I hadn’t gotten around to that.”

“Okay,” Martin says, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. Jon sounds so dejected.

“I…this tape definitely gives an insight into the climate of this office…before. Though it hasn’t caused any relevant memories—such as my murder, per se.” Jon leans over, and one long finger presses the play button.

Static is the first thing that they hear, before Jon clears his throat in the recording. He begins to speak, “Brief statement of Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist, Magnus Institute, London.” He pauses, before sighing, “This uncertainty is wearing on me, and I don’t know how much more I can take. My primary focus is who killed Gertrude Robinson, and I do not believe for a moment that it was a wall-moving specter from the depths of the earth. No, far more likely it’s one of my colleagues. Elias is a prime suspect, but it could have been any of them. I’ve been watching Martin. I’m sure I glanced moments of competence, or even cunning, that are beyond what his previous work would indicate. Is he playing the fool? Purposefully failing in his tasks to delay or hinder my investigations? It’s possible. He has also shown remarkable interest in my personal affairs. A quick sweep of his desk lead to an unfinished letter addressed to his mother in Devon, in which he mentions that he is worried about “the others finding out I’ve been lying”. It may be nothing, some inconsequential deception or other - after all, it is ostensibly written to his mother - but if it was actually to be sent to someone else… I will keep my eye on Martin. I’ve been doing some digging into Tim as well, watching him. There’s just one thing I don’t understand: why is he working for the Institute? A First in Anthropology from Trinity College, five successful years spent climbing the ladder at a major publishing house, and then, out of the blue, he decides to come work for us. Why? I can’t find any other indication of an interest in the paranormal, nothing to indicate this area of study appealed to him. This level of paranoia is new to me, but I’m learning fast. Trust can get you killed. End statement.”

Static fills the space again, and Martin sits in silence, stunned. With Jon’s words, he feels like he can remember flashes: moments of chagrin, bringing tea to Jon, _worrying_ about him. Jon is watching Martin, frowning. “I’m sorry, Martin,” Jon says, “I truly am.”

“Sorry?” Martin repeats, his mind trying to reconcile the snippets of memory he has working with Jon with his current work.

“I was…” Jon winces, “I was completely out of line. Snooping through your desk, accusing you of being lazy—I don’t know what I was thinking.”

“Sounds like you were a dick in your past life,” Daisy rolls her eyes, “but what about Gertrude Robinson? How do you know she was killed?”

“I-I don’t know,” Jon rips his gaze away from Martin.

Martin barely keeps an ear to their conversation. Jon had known about Martin’s mother—he hadn’t told anyone about the state of her. They knew, if they cared to remember, that Martin sometimes helped her out. But they didn’t know that he’d had to drop out of school to take care of her, to resort to lying on his resume so that he could afford to put her in a home because he wasn't capable of taking care of her himself. He feels hot shame rising to his cheeks, that Jon had known—had thought he was incompetent.

“We need to listen to the rest of these tapes,” Daisy is saying. “And what about the documents? Were those relevant?”

Jon shrugs, unsure, “There were a few statements, but they seemed unconnected at first glance. The only common thread I found skimming over them was the mention of someone named Gerard Keay.”

“I know that name,” Martin says distantly, after a moment, “I’ve heard it in a statement, I think.”

“Must mean something then,” Daisy says, “We’ll have to look into him. Maybe he was an accomplice?”

“Maybe,” Jon says, but he is looking at Martin again. Martin doesn’t meet his eyes.

“This could be a lead,” Daisy says, and she actually sounds excited, in her own muted way.

“Georgie too,” Martin says, then clarifies, “Georgie Barker. She was the owner of a cat that snuck its way in here—she knew Jon or Jon knew her, rather. She investigates ghosts or something.”

Daisy grunts in a way that Martin thinks is supposed mean she’s acknowledging him. He feels very tired, down to his bones. Jon is still looking at him. “Martin…” he starts, but they all jump when they hear a door at the far end of the room swing shut. Daisy’s hand is immediately back to her gun.

Martin finds himself frozen and watches in what, according to the drop of his stomach, is horror, as Elias approaches. He is already stumbling over excuses in his mind. Elias smiles, easy and just a bit arrogant. “Apologies,” he says cheerfully, “I thought you would have wrapped up by now.”

“Elias,” Daisy growls. Jon is staring at Elias as if he’s piecing together a complicated puzzle.

Elias meets Jon’s gaze, “Hello, Jon.”

“You can see him?” Martin blurts, before he can stop himself.

Elias’s gaze did not waver, “The Archivist has never left my sight.”

“You did this to me,” Jon says, and it is neither a question nor an accusation.

“Yes, I did,” Elias sounds quite proud of himself, “It took a few favors, a few lost bets, but I knew you would be worth it.”

“I… _why?”_ Jon sounds so very desperate for answers, it makes Martin’s heart ache.

Elias’s smile drops, just a bit, “You were becoming a bit attached, a bit unruly. But you had so much _potential._ I couldn’t bring myself to just waste it. I had to…bench you, as I believe the saying goes, until you were ready to resume your duties.”

“You fucked up,” Daisy says, fingers flexing around the butt of the gun. Elias does not seem phased in the least by it. Martin thinks of the gun upstairs and wonders just how comfortable Elias is with them. 

“We both know you won’t pull the trigger,” Elias says, though Martin disagrees. “You are powerless here. You can’t let the beast inside you get the better of you, not without jeopardizing everything you hold dear. Know that you’ll only be hurting yourself.”

There is a rumble, deep in Daisy’s chest, but Martin speaks over it. “I don’t understand.”

“Martin,” Elias says gently, patronizingly, “There is so much you do not understand. There really is little point in trying. I admit, I was surprised that your affection for Jon was so deeply rooted. An underestimation on my part, truly, but barely an inconvenience. There is nothing you can do for Jon, and eventually there will be nothing left of you. I have waited a very long time for this—Jon and I both have much more time than you will ever have.”

Martin prickles at the threat, but he finds he is more angry than scared. “I could tell them—Sasha and Tim. We could go to the police—expose you.”

Elias actually laughs, a rich throaty sound. “Why would anyone ever believe _you?_ Martin Blackwood, who lies on his resume, who did not finish school, who has been keeping secrets from his coworkers?”

Martin’s fists clench, and he grits his teeth against the well of shame beginning to rise in his throat. Daisy snarls, “You’re going to be taken down. Maybe not now, not here. But you will.”

“You will try,” Elias agrees, “But no one has ever escaped the Lonely without the aid of a Lukas, and you will have a very hard time rewriting a reality the Stranger has meddled with. Even, by some infinitesimal chance, you manage to incapacitate me, you will never help Jon.”

“That’s why you’re telling us this,” Martin says, “because you think there’s no way for us to stop you.”

“What makes you think I’d do anything for you?” Jon says, his voice harder now. “You’re a coward. You did this to me and _hid.”_

“I couldn’t risk triggering your memories,” Elias explains, “For all my efforts, you are still an avatar of the Eye. It would have been…inconvenient, to say the least.”

“But now?” Jon prompts.

“This little investigation was beginning to hinder the progress of the Archives and I do hate unproductivity. I felt it better to step in now. Your memory will fade eventually, and you’ll have no concession stepping back into the role of Archivist, I assure you.” Elias smiles brightly again, cupping his hands together, “Now, are we finished? I’ve got some work to attend to.”

“You won’t get away with this,” Martin grits, red creeping us his neck and into his cheeks.

Elias rolls his eyes as he walks toward the hallway, “I already have.”

“Fuck,” Daisy grunts when Elias rounds the corner. “Fuck!”

“I don’t—” Martin heart is beating rapidly, and his hands are shaking. “I don’t understand. What was he even—the _Lonely?_ What the hell is that? Is he, like, immortal? Is that even possible?”

“Does it matter?” Jon says, his voice quiet.

“Why wouldn’t it?” Martin asks, incredulous.

“You heard him yourself, Martin. There’s no…I can’t be saved,” Jon swallows thickly.

Martin blinks at him and says stubbornly, “I don’t believe that.”

“It won’t be easy,” Daisy says, “He’s made that clear.”

“I don’t care!” Martin cries, “He deserves to be—to be _punished!_ ”

“Martin,” Jon says sadly, eyes soft as he looks at him, “That may be true. But it could also be true that I don’t deserve to be…maybe _I_ deserve this.”

“What?” Martin gawks at him, mouth open.

“You heard me on the tape,” Jon sounds pained, “I was…unwell, unpleasant at best. The way I treated you…I couldn’t have been a good person.”

“You were stressed,” Martin reasons, “You were paranoid. Just because you were rude or unkind…that doesn’t mean that you should be left to waste away here.”

Jon’s answering smile is pitiful, but Martin accepts it. He knows he means it. How could he turn a blind eye, now that he knows what Elias has done? Martin thinks that would make him complicit, would make him an _accomplice._ He doesn’t want that. He wants to help Jon.

As they stand, frustrated, stunned, dejected, in front of Martin’s desk, he makes up his mind.

He’s going to help Jon, no matter what it takes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jon's statement was a compilation of a few different supplementals, with a few edits


	9. but is there still a chance to change your mind?

Martin doesn’t want to go to work. The thought of having to face Elias once more in the light of day this time scares him. He doesn’t want to be disappeared too. He’s not sure how he could even begin to manage to act normally knowing all that he knows. He considers calling in sick, but the thought of Jon being stranded in the same place as Elias needles at him. Martin knows, logically, that this has been the case for months and Elias had been content to let Jon linger, but still…he worries.

Tucked under layers of blankets in his bed, Martin does his best to _remember_ Jon. He doesn’t really know all that much besides superficial details, though. He knows Jon’s birthday, knows that he and Jon worked together, that Jon must have liked tea, but those are not things he _knows_ about Jon, just things that he’s been told he knows. He tries to focus on those blurry, fleeting feelings he had felt listening to Jon’s tapes, tries to cling onto the memories and drag them out into something more solid.

Hours into the early morning, he drifts off to sleep this way. Martin dreams as he sinks deeper and deeper into stress-fueled sleep, first of amorphous and unconceivable things. But then, as if he has always been there, he is sitting at a booth with ice cream in front of him. He blinks, staring down at the half-consumed scoops. “Martin?” Sasha asks from his left, and he looks up to see Tim and Jon staring expectantly at him as well.

He swallows, and it feels like something settles into his chest. Of course, he’s eating ice cream with his coworkers for his birthday—their treat. Silly Martin. “Sorry,” he says, shaking his head, “What did you say?”

“I asked if you’ve come to this place before,” Sasha repeats, patient and smiling, “This Black Raspberry is to die for.”

“Oh,” he chuckles in that self-conscious way of his, the way he can never quite help, “I’ve been here a few times, yeah. My flat’s not too far.”

“Sasha’s right,” Tim says around a mouthful of the monstrosity he had the clerk scoop together, “This is like heaven on a spoon: creamy but not too goopy.” Tim presses his fingers to his mouth in a mock chef’s kiss. Martin smiles.

“It’s about the emulsifiers,” Jon blurts and then looks like he immediately regrets it. Everyone’s eyes are drawn to him, and Jon carefully spoons at his bowl of Rum Raisin. “They…they stabilize the ice cream.”

“Oh?” Sasha asks, tilting her head as she chases a bit of her ice cream that’s starting to run.

Jon pauses, as if he’s checking for something, and then sits up straighter, clearing his voice. “Yes, emulsifiers are actually a very useful tool when it comes to ice cream. Depending on the type of emulsifiers used, it can affect the creaminess that Tim enjoys, but it can also affect how long the ice cream will last before melting or the ease of storage. They are, I suppose, the unsung heroes of ice cream.”

Martin tries not to—to perk up as Jon speaks, to look as though he’s hanging onto every word, or overly interested. He’s not sure how successful he is, but he doesn’t care as long as Jon continues on about the emulsifiers and their properties. He’s been so quiet since they got here, Martin is happy to hear him speak about anything. Jon’s shoulders droop just a bit when he finishes explaining, and Martin wonders if that’s a blush creeping up the man’s neck. He doesn’t let his gaze linger long enough to find out.

“Sorry,” Jon says, looking down at his ice cream, “I didn’t intend to ramble.”

“It’s really interesting,” Martin says quickly, and Jon’s glances up at him in surprise. Martin offers a supportive smile, and his chest flutters at the very small uplift at the corner of Jon’s lips.

“I didn’t realize ice cream making was so complicated,” Tim says, “Maybe you should look into it as a side hustle. I’d be happy to taste test.” He winks at Jon.

“Perhaps,” Jon says drily, jamming his spoon into his ice cream.

They settle into what Martin hopes is a comfortable silence. When Tim has managed to get mostly through his ice cream, he looks at Martin with a shit-eating grin. “So, Martin…”

“Yes, Tim?” Martin responds, already feeling heat beginning to bloom across his cheeks. Very quietly across the table, Jon groans.

“I don’t want you to think we’ve forgotten the reason we’re all here.” Tim reaches into his work bag and pulls out a small, wrapped cube, setting on the middle of the table. “Now, I’m sure this establishment would not appreciate the lighting of flammable objects, as dear Sasha has advised, but that’s where the limits end. Do you understand?”

“Oh no,” Martin groans, trying to sink into the booth as much as possible.

“Oh yes,” Tim grins, as Sasha laughs. They launch into a very obnoxious rendition of “Happy Birthday”. Martin won’t look at them, but he thinks he sees Jon mouthing the words out of the corner of his eye. They clap and cheer as Martin rolls his eyes at them, though there is warmth curling in his chest.

“Go on,” Sasha pulls the box toward him and he shyly reaches out to touch it. It takes a moment to unwrap and open, but the object inside is easily pulled out.

Martin turns the mug in his hand, admiring it. It is sturdy and a shiny black, save for script in white curling around it and the silhouette of a tree. It’s an excerpt from “On the Grasshopper and Cricket” by Keats, just the first line. It’s not Martin’s favorite poem of his, but still…the thought that was put into the gift…there is a lump in his throat he has to swallow down. “Thank you,” Martin murmurs, his voice soft. He clears his throat and speaks louder, “Really, thank you. It’s lovely.”

“That’s the guy you like—the poet, right?” Tim asks, “We were _pretty_ sure, but if you don’t like it, we can always take it back.”

“No,” Martin says immediately, “I love it.”

“Happy Birthday,” Sasha sings, bumping against his shoulder.

“Happy Birthday!” Tim nods, smile wide across his face.

“Happy Birthday, Martin,” Jon says softly, a shy smile ghosting across his lips.

Martin wakes in his bed with a jolt, sweating under the pile of blankets save for the cool feeling of the mug he had felt in his dreams. Disoriented, he fumbles for the notebook by his bed and tries to capture every single piece of his dream into it. It had felt so real, so _familiar._

Martin doesn’t try to return to sleep after that. It’s still earlier than he would normally get up, but he finds himself filled with a desperate sort of energy. He goes through all of his cabinets, searching for the mug from his dream, but comes up empty handed. He still makes himself tea, though it sits in the mug untouched.

The journey to work is cold and too loud for the early morning, cutting into him sharply and keeping his wide awake and on edge. He drops his things unceremoniously at his desk, which bears nothing from the night previous. He searches frantically through his drawers; in case the mug had been stowed away. There is no trace of it there either, and Martin is already walking toward the kitchen before he really registers what he’s doing.

If anyone else is around, they don’t bother him. Sasha’s door had been closed once more and Tim certainly hadn’t been in. Briefly, Martin wonders if Elias secretly lives here, if that’s how he seems to know way too much about what goes on. He doesn’t linger on it when he reaches the work cabinets, which he promptly starts to pick apart. There is a mishmash of Tupperware and ceramics, one of which Martin nearly drops when he hears a quiet, “Martin?” behind him.

He turns with wild eyes, fumbling the plain mug, only to see Jon standing a few feet behind him, watching with a frown. “Jesus, Jon,” he huffs, trying to temper his heart rate back into something normal, “You scared me.”

“I’m sorry,” Jon says, glancing away for a moment. Martin doesn’t like that. Jon clears his throat, nodding to the cupboard behind Martin. “Are you alright?”

“Just peachy,” Martin says, though even he can tell it sounds a bit manic. “I’m looking for a mug,” he concedes.

“Is there something wrong with all of these?” Jon’s forehead creases, gesturing to the mugs scattered across the counter.

“It’s a specific mug,” Martin says, and finds that his words catch there, embarrassed for some reason. “It was a gift.”

“What’s it like?” Jon asks, stepping closer to Martin.

Martin pauses for a moment, as if the mug was something shameful to have treasured. He shook his head at himself, beginning to describe the mug from his dream, “It’s black and it has some writing on it. And a little picture of a tree. I’m not even really sure if it’s—”

“It’s under the sink,” Jon cuts him off, before frowning apologetically. “I’m sorry, I…”

Martin ignores him, crouching to open the compartment under the sink. It takes him a moment, but he does the find the mug, tucked behind some bottles of cleaner and covered in a thick layer of dust. He pulls it out slowly, carefully, as if it might shatter. Martin’s finger brushes across the words, wiping the dust away and revealing them more clearly. “How did you…?” He glances up at Jon. The mug had clearly been hidden away.

“I don’t know,” Jon frowns, looking down at him, “I just—I just knew it. Not like I…I always knew, and I was hiding it or something. Just…when you asked, I knew.”

Martin nods, as if that makes any sense to him. The issue is that stranger things were happening, always seemed to be happening. Martin was losing his ability to be astounded, especially after last night. “I think—” he rose with the mug in hand, wincing as his knees cracked. “I think I remembered something. I wasn’t sure if it was a dream or not, but this mug…”

Martin trails off, remembering the flutter in his chest in the dream. He tries desperately not to blush now. “Remembered something?” Jon prods.

“Yeah, I…we were in an ice cream shop. For my birthday. All of us—Sasha, Tim, and you. This mug was my gift.” Martin speaks quickly.

“Hm,” Jon says, and Martin feels himself deflate.

“What? You don’t think it’s real?” Martin asks, self-conscious.

“I don’t doubt you, Martin,” Jon says, but looks at his shoes, “I just…like I said last night, does it really matter? Not your birthday, of course, but that I had…that I was part of the world before?”

That makes Martin’s chest ache, and he shakes his head, confused, “You said you hated being a mystery.”

“I do,” Jon says, smiling with no happiness behind it, “I did. But we know now what happened.”

“Okay…” Martin wracks his brain, “Maybe you’re not exactly a mystery anymore, but that doesn’t mean—the story’s not over, Jon. I _remember_ you. Maybe you weren’t always nice, but you were _good._ I wouldn’t have…I wouldn’t know if you weren’t. I would.”

Jon’s voice is almost a whisper, “Martin…this could be dangerous. Our boss literally _erased_ me. I don’t want anything to happen to you—especially not because of me. Elias said there’s no saving me.”

“That’s what he wants us to think,” Martin argues, ignoring the way Jon’s words sink into him. “If anyone doesn’t deserve something, it’s Elias. Bad things have been happening here for years. He can’t keep getting away with it and I can’t just pretend I don’t know about it. I can’t.”

Jon softens, “I…I’m not going to let you do this alone. Not if you really insist. But _please_ be careful.” Jon is open and genuine, and his hand rises, as if to lay his hand on Martin’ shoulder. Martin finds himself holding his breath.

“Martin?” Sasha startles them from the doorway, and Jon drops his hand. “What in the world are you doing?”

The mug is heavy in his hand. Martin exhales and looks past Jon. “I couldn’t find my mug.”

Sasha’s gaze is hard, her mouth a thin line. “Right. Well, when you’ve finished sorting this out, come see me. We need to have a chat.”

“Okay,” Martin says, but the flicker of anxiety in his gut is a ghost of what it used to be. There are much more dreadful things than constructive criticism about the work he was never qualified to do. “Be right with you.”

Sasha’s gaze lingers on Martin for another moment before she walks away. Martin glances back at Jon, but the moment is lost. He turns around to start putting all the drinkware he’d pulled out. “That reminds me,” Jon says, “I saw something else when I was in her office.”

“Yeah?” Martin asks, lining the mugs so that they’ll all fit, “About you?”

“You, actually.” That gives Martin pause.

“Me?”

“It seems that Sasha has succumbed to a similar paranoia as I did,” Jon says, leaning against the small table while Martin works. “She…she’s been looking into you and Tim. There was a whole file on you: why you’re in your position with a Master’s, where you go once a month, that sort of thing.”

Martin freezes. “She…” his mouth is very dry, “She’s _tracking_ me? Where I—that’s absolutely none of her business!”

“Of course,” Jon says, and he sounds guilty, “I know you’ve had your privacy infringed upon multiple times. It’s unacceptable.”

Martin can feel his heart beginning to pound with the weight of Jon’s words. Sasha knows about his CV. Sasha might know about his _mother._ It isn’t even the panic that he might be fired that’s squeezing him, it’s the shame of them knowing what failure he is. What kind of son fails his own mother?

He doesn’t hear Jon come closer behind him, but he does feel the cool weight of the man’s hand squeeze his shoulder. Martin lets out a deep breath “It’s going to be alright, Martin.”

Martin tries focus on the cold seeping through his sweater. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Jon removes his hand after a gentle squeeze, and Martin turns to face him. His face is flaming, but Jon has the courtesy to not mention it. “Let’s…let’s get this over with,” Martin sighs.

Tim is hunched over his desk when Martin returns and doesn’t seem to notice when Martin knocks on Sasha’s door. She gives her assent quickly, and he closes the heavy door behind him. “Have a seat, Martin,” she says, her voice pleasant but clearly a façade.

Martin obliges, gripping the arms of the chair with both hands, “You wanted to speak with me?”

Sasha nods, “You haven’t seemed yourself lately, Martin. I wanted to hope that it was stress, that it wasn’t sabotage. But Elias has made me aware that he caught you here last night with an intruder.” Sasha exhales through her nose, “I need people here that I can trust. I’m not so sure I can trust you anymore, Martin.”

“Sabotage?” Martin repeats dumbly. He hadn’t expected Elias to pull this sort of move, but Elias had been confident Martin couldn’t do anything.

Sasha eyes him, “What were you doing? How much of the Archives has been compromised?”

“Compromised? Sasha, I don’t even know what that means. Why would I “compromise” the Archives?” Martin shakes his head in disbelief, “Did Elias put this in your head?”

“I know,” Sasha says, “I _know,_ Martin. You’re hiding something—multiple things, actually.”

Martin feels anger swell behind his breast, and before he can stop himself, he says, “My mother is in a care home. That’s why I go up to Devon. That’s why I lied on my CV—because she was too sick to take care of us, so I had to. Where I go is honestly _none_ of your business,” he lets out a humorless laugh, “and it’s honestly laughable that you think _I’m_ the suspicious one here.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she counters. It occurs to Martin that just as she can’t trust him, he can’t trust her.

“You want to know why I was here? I was helping that policewoman with her investigation—with that missing person. There’s somebody very dangerous here, and she wants to bring them to justice. I really don’t see how that’s sabotage.”

“You said you didn’t know anybody that was missing,” Sasha probes, “You have to understand how suspicious you sound.”

“I didn’t _know_ he was missing then,” Martin insists.

“Why not come to me? Why keep all of this hidden?” Sasha huffs, shaking her head.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Martin says.

Sasha scoffs, “Try me.”

Martin considers it, truly. But he doesn’t know if she’s working with Elias, if she had any hand in what got her this position. He settles on, “The statements are real, Sasha.”

Something changes in her face at that, a different calculating look set upon him. “I know that,” she says, “but, how do you?”

He doesn’t even really know how to answer that. Instead he says, “Bad things happen to people who work here. Not even just Gertrude—assistants too. I don’t want that to happen to me.”

Sasha seems to loosen, the tension draining from her shoulders. “Something isn’t right here.”

“It’s not,” Martin says, and opens his mouth to say more but pauses. Sasha watches him carefully as he leans forward to grab a spare piece of paper and a pen. He writes, DO NOT TRUST ELIAS. He watches Sasha read it and she nods.

“I don’t think it’s you,” Sasha says, “but I can’t say I trust you either.”

“Are you going to fire me?” Martin asks.

“I…” Sasha glances away, “I don’t think that I can. I think things are a lot more complicated here than they seem. Elias actually asked me to give you a _warning_ , not a punishment.”

Martin wonders at that. “Maybe he prefers having me in his sight, if I’m so suspicious and such a threat to the Archive.”

Sasha is quiet for a moment, “If Elias thought you were a threat to this place, you would already be gone. I know that much.”

“Sasha,” Martin says, leaning forward, “I promise I’m not—not evil or whatever you think I am. I’m not blind. I know that you and Tim, you don’t want me to know about whatever it is you’re working on. But I could _help._ I want to help, if I can.”

Sasha watches him for a few minutes in silence, before finally murmuring, “You can go now, Martin. Thank you for speaking with me.”

Martin almost feels like it’s a trick, but she just continues to stare at him. He rises slowly, pausing at the door to say, “Hiding things around here usually ends up hurting people.”

She doesn’t answer and he returns to his desk. Tim watches him now, more curious than suspicious. Martin wonders if that’s just an act—if everyone in this building is wearing their own mask.

He drops into his chair and rifles through his things until he finds the paper he wants. He dials the number, waiting as the tone drones on and on. “Hello, Georgie? It’s Martin—from the Magnus Institute. Could we talk?”


	10. after the twilight, always a sunrise

It only occurs to Martin to be anxious as he's stepping into the warm coffee shop after the long week he's had. He had become so embroiled in impossible, nonsensical things that he'd almost forgotten the world outside. What reason would Georgie have to believe him? What makes the stakes worth helping him? But Martin has to try. He won't let Elias win, not this time, and right now Georgie is his best lead. She is already waiting for him as he mindlessly purchases some hot holiday special. She smiles at him when he takes the seat across from her, and he can almost pretend this is a normal hangout with a friend. Almost.

  
"You wanted to talk? Or collaborate, more like?" Georgie asks, taking a sip from her own drink.

  
"Yeah, something like that," Martin huffs, struggling to find the best place to start. He looks at her earnestly, "You're going to think I'm crazy. I know I would. But please...please listen, at least."

  
"Try me," Georgie says, but Martin's not confident that he's wrong.

  
Martin swallows, hands wrapped around his drink tightly, as if he could squeeze the warmth of it into himself. "You know I work for the Magnus Institute. You know that we collect statements from people about—about things that shouldn't be real. For the longest time, I didn't really believe any of them. I mean, I sympathized, definitely, but I never really thought..." Martin shakes his head. "It started with your cat. Remember how I said someone gave me the name? It wasn't exactly a lie, but...there's more to it. There's a man named Jon, that I…that's in the Institute. He was the one who said the Admiral looked like, well, an admiral."

  
"Okay," Georgie nods, "I'm not exactly seeing what there is to be so worked up about. It's definitely a strange coincidence, sure, but not really impossible." 

  
"Well, the thing is..." Martin shifts uncomfortably, "Jon is not...no one can see Jon but me—and one other person, but mainly just me. He's a ghost...but not also not a ghost."

  
Georgie leans forward, watching Martin intently, "A ghost but not a ghost?"

  
"We thought he was a ghost at first, himself included. He couldn't remember much until he met the Admiral and...me, I guess. I wanted to help him, you know, get closure or something. But I couldn't find record of him anywhere—it was like he never existed in the first place. It turns out that right before he...disappeared, he'd actually contacted the police for help. Clearly they were too late, but the policewoman assigned to it...she decided to follow up anyway. She gave me his name, and he actually started to remember some things once I could jog his memory."

  
"Things like what?" Georgie asks.

"You, actually," Martin says awkwardly, "He thinks...he feels like he remembers you. He said you were nice but stubborn, and he remembers you bringing home the Admiral one day."

  
Georgie sits and digests that for a moment, considering Martin, "I do see how that’s odd. You said you're not the only person who can see him?"

  
"No, the detective—she couldn't at first, but anybody can actually hear his voice if its over a cassette tape. She heard that and just kind of...knew that it was him? Suddenly she could see him, even though he was in the room the whole time." Martin frowns, "I should have brought a recording...it's kind of hard to hide though..."

  
Georgie clears her throat, "I sense there's more?"

  
Martin can feel the heat rising to his cheeks, "Y-Yeah. Jon's not...he's not dead. We know that much. He's just...in a sort of stasis, I guess. I don't really understand it myself, but the point is that he's not dead. There has to be some way to...retrieve him?"

  
"That's what you want me for?" Georgie asks.

  
Martin glances down, "I…I figured you knew about ghosts—you said you have a podcast about them. I know I said Jon's not dead or a ghost, but...he's pretty close to one. And I think you might be connected to him. How in the world would your cat just end up at the place your friend has gone supernaturally missing?"

  
Georgie is quiet for a moment, her eyes narrowing as she thinks. "I…I'm not saying that you're right. The thing is, though, is that there's definitely something strange... When I try to think about...a friend who might have known me and the Admiral and worked at the Institute...it's not like I don't know them, like I can’t think of anyone. It's more like...like I'm trying to hold onto a slippery bar of soap. There's definitely something there, but I don't know if it’s the something you think it is." Georgie shrugs, taking a sip of her drink while she considers, "And I'm not the one who really...investigates the ghosts. I just tell their stories."

  
Martin feels the weight settle around his neck that drags his shoulders down. "So you can't help," he says, voice unable to make it past flat at best.

  
"I didn't say that," Georgie says, "I do know someone, vaguely, through the grapevine, you know...she investigates them. She has a whole show about it. She's probably your best bet."

  
"Oh," Martin blinks, "Do you...do you think she'd go for this sort of thing?"

  
"I mean," Georgie shrugs, "It's not like this strays _that_ far from her normal scene. No harm trying."

  
"Do you have her information?" Martin asks, despite the anxiety that wells in his stomach at the thought of calling someone else in. There are already so many more people that Elias could potentially hurt.

  
"Not with me," Georgie tips her drink back, "but I'll text you the details when I get home."

  
"Could you do me one more favor?" Martin asks hesitantly.

  
"What?" she tilts her head curiously.

  
"Could you just...look around for anything that might have to do with Jonathan Sims? Just in case?"

  
Georgie smiles, but he can see pity curling at its edges, "Sure, I'll have a look. Can't promise anything though."

  
"Sure, 'course," Martin nods, and his own gaze is genuine, "Thank you for meeting with me, Georgie, really."

  
This time her smile is real, "No trouble, Martin. It was nice to meet you."

  
Georgie leaves not long after, but Martin lingers. He's not the greatest fan of crowds, but it feels better to be around people right now. He takes a deep breath and pulls out his phone. He's got somewhat of a plan now, so that's something, at least. He'll have to text Daisy and see if she has any updates. It's entirely likely she's given up the case, but the look in her eyes when she had spoken with Elias makes him think maybe she hasn't yet.

Martin meanders home despite the cold, stopping at a used bookstore and then to a small corner store for groceries. By the time he makes it back to his building, the sun is starting to set, casting orange shadows across the streets. Martin thinks that's a look that maybe he'd want to capture, wonders at how it would go in verse. He opens his door robotically, mind finally distracted. He's barely put his things down before there's a knock on the door. 

Immediately, his stomach jumps into his throat. Martin doesn’t get visitors, especially _unannounced_ visitors. He can’t stop thinking of the gun in Elias’s office. Though his fingers tighten around the can of beans he’s holding, his hands shake. The person knocks again.

He makes his way toward the door, hefty can still in his hand. He takes a shaky breath as he tries to peek through the peephole, but all he can make out is a crown of brown hair. Not Elias, at least.

Martin still opens the door cautiously, brows furrowing when he sees Sasha at his door. Her coat is hunched up to her neck, clearly cold. Her cheeks are pink, but she meets Martin’s gaze easily. “Sasha?” is all he can think to say.

“Martin,” she says, and her voice wavers just a bit, just enough for him to doubt her confidence. “Can we talk?”

“Uh, sure,” he opens the door wider, hand holding the can dropping to his side. Sasha’s gaze flicks down to it.

She raises her eyebrows, “You were going to bean me?”

Martin’s cheeks bloom and he mutters, “Just putting groceries away.” Then, louder, “Tea?”

“Sure,” she nods, rubbing her hands together and following him toward his small kitchen. He’s too worried about _why_ she’s here to worry about the state of his apartment. The easy motions of making their tea offers somewhat of a distraction. He pours his own into the birthday mug, carefully placed on his counter. He finds that he likes to keep it close now that he remembers it, as a reminder that he’s not going insane.

They move to the living area, sitting on his threadbare couch that he hasn’t had the money to replace. It still carries the smell of his mother’s sharp perfume from its original home. He sips his tea carefully, watching Sasha.

Her hands are wound tightly around her own mug. “I…” she glances around the room, “I’m sorry, Martin.”

“Sorry?” he echoes.

She nods, “I’m sorry…for a lot. For barging into your home on your day off, for what I said to you…You don’t deserve to be treated that way, Martin.”

Martin does his best to ignore the flutter in his stomach, and instead sighs, “Why are you here, Sasha?”

Sasha takes a deep breath, “There is…there’s something more to my job, Martin. You said that some of the statements are real. I can…I can _feel_ them. When I start reading them it’s like I become somebody else, and I can’t stop. I don’t _want_ to stop. It’s so…so fulfilling, finishing them. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt before.”

Martin is not exactly in a place to judge, but he is having some trouble following. He’s felt the gravity of the statements, but it’s never felt like what’s she’s describing. He lets her continue.

“I feel like…like they make me _stronger_ , if that makes sense. But they also…they make me paranoid, too. At first, I thought it was just me, just overworked from the promotion, but…” She looks up at Martin, “I know this is going to sound crazy, Martin. But please, hear me out. Obviously, I felt like something wasn’t right, that things were happening that I didn’t understand. I didn’t like the feeling that I was _changing_ when I didn’t know why or from what. Then one day a man I’d never met passed me on the street outside the institute. He handed me a pamphlet before I could say no, making sure to brush his hand against mine. He nodded after that, said something about me “marinating nicely for such short notice.””

Sasha takes a shaky breath, “I was so freaked out, I called Tim. He would have been the closest person at the time, and when I told his what happened, he made me describe the man. It was a man he thought he’d seen before, and we looked into it. We’re pretty sure it was the same person, though some details don’t add up. There was more going on…dots beginning to line up the deeper I went. I could barely sleep or eat, I was convinced that someone was coming after me.”

“Sasha,” Martin murmurs, “That’s horrible. Like, truly awful. I don’t understand though…why would any of that make you think that _I_ was involved?”

“It was mostly paranoia. These people—there’s a group of them—they’ve all appeared in statements at one point or another. They’re not…they’re not human, Martin. And from what the statements say, they could be _anybody._ I had reason to trust Tim, mostly, but you…things weren’t adding up. It didn’t help to have Elias breathing over my shoulder.” Sasha reaches out and takes one of Martin’s hands, “But I can’t think like that. You’re one of the loveliest people I’ve ever met, Martin. I don’t think you’d do anything to harm anyone—you’re always trying to help. So…I’m here to apologize, to ask for that help, if you’re still willing.”

“Sasha…” Martin sets his mug down with one hand, squeezing hers in the others, “Of course, I’ll help you. I’ve been worried about you, and Tim too for a matter of fact. Things aren’t…they aren’t right at the Institute, but it doesn’t have to be like that with us. We were a team, once.”

“Thank you, Martin,” she says, her voice shaking, “Thank you. I really need all the help I can get if I’m going to stop the Stranger.”

Martin’s heart skips a beat in his chest, “The—The Stranger?”

“It’s…well, it’s hard to explain and I’ve probably already swamped you with so much. The very simple explanation is that the people that are after me dedicate themselves to this…entity. I’ll tell you more, I promise, but it really is rather complicated.” Sasha shrugs, removing her hand to take a sip from her tea. There is a lightness about her that Martin hasn’t seen in a long time.

Martin, however, is beginning to sweat. His mouth feels dry. “Sasha,” he says, voice raspy, “I have to tell you something too.”

Her brows furrow, “What?”

“I…I found something at the Institute, something…strange. That’s why Elias has been…saying stuff about me. He doesn’t think that there’s anything I can do about it, so he’s toying with me.” Martin swallows, “Do you remember that voice Tim heard on the tape recorder?”

Sasha nods silently, considering Martin intensely. “I…this sounds crazy, I know. But I _met_ that person, the voice on the tape. They…they’re sort of a ghost; in that it doesn’t seem like most people see or hear him. But he’s real and he’s not dead. He discovered something about the Institute too, and Elias made his disappear. Literally. He said he had some help from “the Lonely and the Stranger”. I had no idea what that meant…” Martin looks at her, almost desperately, “But you know about them?”

Sasha’s lips twist, “I don’t know _everything_ …”

“I just need _something_ ,” he says, “I need to save Jon.”

“Jon?” she asks.

Martin hesitates, “Jonathan Sims. He’s the person that Elias had erased from our lives—the previous Head Archivist.”

“Martin…” Sasha says slowly, “The last Head Archivist was Gertrude Robinson.”

“She wasn’t,” Martin shakes his head, “She’s just the last one we remember. Before you, there was Jon. I know it sounds crazy, but…is it really crazier than what you’ve got going on? There’s a lot more to it, but that’s why I told you not to trust Elias. Have you…have you looked into the past of the Archives? Bad things happen to the people that work there. Really bad things.” Martin’s gaze drifts toward his mug and he surges it up, almost spilling the cooling tea. “Do you remember this?”

Sasha looks confused at the change of subject but inspects it anyway. “We gave you this for one of your birthdays, didn’t we?”

Martin nods enthusiastically, “Do you remember where? Who with?”

She gives him another odd look, “We were out for ice cream, weren’t we? You, me, and Tim?”

“Sasha,” Martin fixes his gaze on her, “I need you to think. There was someone else there, sitting across from you and me. He got rum raisin.”

Sasha’s face wrinkle with the effort to recall the memory. After a few moments, she shakes her head, “It’s hazy, Martin. It was a long time ago.”

Martin looks down, disappointed. “Do you really not remember? Or is it more like you can’t hold onto the memory?”

Sasha narrows her eyes, “How did you know that?”

“It’s come up a lot lately,” Martin sighs. His fingers trace over the text on his mug, “Things…they haven’t been making a whole lot of sense. But I think that’s the way Elias wants it to be,” Martin scoffs. “He literally came out and confessed what he did because he was so confident. It’s…he’s scary, Sasha.”

“I know,” she says quietly. “I know. But we’ve got each other. We’re a team, like you said. We’ll find out what’s going on and we’ll put a stop to it.”

“You believe me?” Martin asks, his voice soft and incredulous.

“I haven’t really got the footing not to after all I’ve just said, haven’t I?” Sasha smiles, “I really am sorry, Martin.”

“It’s okay,” he assures her, “I’m sorry too. We can make it up to each other. We will.”

“Yes,” Sasha smiles and Martin feels hope beginning to bloom in his chest, “We will.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay guys. also i know the spacing is weird for the first half, i had to write it on a shitty software and now i can't get it to format right. won't make that mistake again.


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